


Whumptober 2018

by spiderboyneedsahug



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (holy shit that's a tag?), Blood and Injury, Bruises, Coparenting, Electrocution, Fever Dreams, Hurt Peter Parker, Hypothermia, I'll tag events on their chapter due to AO3's unspecific tag system, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Insomnia, Kidnapping, May Parker Needs a Hug, Michelle Jones - Freeform, Peter Parker Has a Family, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Precious Peter Parker, Protective May Parker (Spider-Man), Shameless vine references, Sleepy Cuddles, Stabbing, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Cuddles, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Torture, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Whumptober 2018, no beta we die like men, seriously peter has no clue what he's doing and is trying to deal with it alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-07-29 22:29:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 71,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16273676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderboyneedsahug/pseuds/spiderboyneedsahug
Summary: A collection of Irondad and Spiderson themed whumptober ficlets.





	1. Stabbing

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of people were asking if I'd post them up on AO3 as well as Tumblr, I said I'd do it at the end of whumptober, and it's boring in class so I'm uploading them now.
> 
> Love y'all!

He stumbles slightly, breaths coming out in halting wheezes. _Jesus._  That fight is turning out to be a bad, _bad_ move. Definitely. He’s way too tired for this, but he can’t exactly _leave_ this crime. Peter ducks under another punch, hazily attempting to web the person’s hand to one of the alley’s walls. He misses again. _Again_.

 

He barely restrains a yelp when he feels something cold and harsh jabbing into his side. Guessing from the fact that it doesn’t move (if anything, it feels _wedged in)_ , it’s probably a knife, and that means-

 

Well, that means it’s a _knife_. Mr. Stark is gonna be _pissed_.

 

Against how foreign and horrible it feels in his side, Peter drops into a crouch and sweeps his leg into the other guy’s. The dude crashes to the floor, hard. Peter webs the guy’s arms to the floor, panting hard in exertion, and slips away from the fight.

 

He trips after about three steps. The only thing that stops his face from smashing into the grimy concrete of the alley is his forearms, and _they’re_ starting to hurt now, too. His throat thick with what may or may not be held back tears, Peter rolls over, and ghosts his fingers over his abdomen until they bump into the hilt of the knife and the surrounding nerves sing with fire.

 

He groans quietly. It fucking _hurts_.

 

_‘Peter, you’ve been stabbed.’_

He huffs a laugh. Really? “I guessed. I’m gonna take it out.”

_‘Peter, no-’_

“I’m taking it out. I’ll heal, right?”

 _‘You will, but not without causing significant blood loss first.’_ He weighs up his options — he could leave the knife in, and stroll on up to the apartment with a knife in his gut like a badass, then probably get tetanus and die. Or, he could pull the knife out and just… deal with a little bit of dizziness and maybe a slight infection.

“Cool! Then I’m taking it out.”

 _‘Peter.’_ He frowns. Karen’s voice isn’t usually this stern. But he shakes his head.

“Karen, I can’t go home like this.”

There’s a few seconds of silence, almost like she’s thinking, and then an almost reluctant response comes.

_‘You’re closer to Stark Tower than you are to your apartment. May’s at work until late; if you’re going to take out the weapon, please go to Stark Tower for treatment afterwards. I’ll direct you to the medical bay.'_

Peter stares at his hands; at the smearing of shiny black-red on his gloves. May _is_ at work. If he goes home and passes out, and she comes home to see him like _that_ …

 

Doesn’t sound fun.

 

“Okay. Sure.” Peter huffs. Rolls his shoulders, clenches his hand into a fist while the other curls around the hilt of the knife.

“Easy.”

He yanks the knife out.

 

On one hand, it’s a relief — he can’t feel the intrusion anymore, and the fiery pain whenever he moved even a little is fading. On the other —

 

He bites harshly on his tongue to muffle the scream that tries to escape, the metallic tang of blood a poor distraction from the pain. His eyes screw shut and flood with tears; his hands are grasping at anything they can find purchase on — empty bags, trash can lids — just to find some grip on reality.

 

In, out. In, out.

 _‘Breathe, Peter, and try to stay still. Blood loss is minimal so far. I would recommend trying to get to Stark Tower now.’_ His HUD lights up with a path, and Peter grips harshly on a wall to pull himself upright. He has to get to Stark Tower.

 

It all kinda… blurs from there. He remembers maybe hearing a few shocked gasps, probably when people saw him, but everything’s a little vague. His fingers are tingly. Cold. Streets pass in a haze, and he’s probably left a blood streak along a few buildings by the time he gets to the luminous, arc-reactor blue lights of Stark Tower.

 

It looks empty. The lights are on, but the hallway is empty. He wonders briefly if FRIDAY is still there, but doesn’t ask Karen before tiredly pushing one of the glass doors open. Surprisingly, it works, and Peter has to wonder if security has gotten _really_ lax, or if the Tower… recognises him?

 

The reception-looking scene before him is swimming across his vision, and the little black dots — where did they come from? — have left their confines in the corners of his vision to spread. He’s about to take another step forwards when-

“Whoa-!”

His knees give out again. _Drip_. He pauses, eyes glassy but wide. _Drip-drip_. Huh. Weird. _Drip-splash_.

 

He watches in mute horror as the small crimson puddle beneath him grows into something much larger. _Karen didn’t say he’d bleed this much_. He kinda regrets taking the knife out now.

 _‘Peter, you should lie down. Your wound has reopened-’_ (it had healed?) _‘-and is bleeding again. There’s a couch to your left.’_

 

With tired eyes, he looks over- and there _is_ a couch next to him. Peter drags himself over, crawling on his knees, to the sofa. It looks comfortable, and he _really_ is tired right now.  A nap- a nap won’t hurt, will it?

 

He lies down straight on the couch, one hand draped over the injury, and lets his eyes close.

  


Everything goes black for a while.

  


* * *

 

“-ter-?”

 

* * *

 

“-eter?”

 

* * *

 

_“Peter!”_

Peter gasps awake, hand curling into a fist and flailing outwards. Something catches it around the wrist, something uncomfortably solid and cold, and he freezes up, chest still heaving. What is it? Who is it? The grip is cold and hard, and oh _god_ is it Toomes again?

 

He fights the grip off harder, until it releases him.

“Peter! Peter, can you hear me? Are you awake this time?”

His side hurts. A _lot_.

“Ow, ow, _ow_ -!” He knows that tensing his body isn’t gonna help with that fire consuming his entire abdomen, but he _can’t help it._ It hurts.

“ _Shit_ , fuck- what happened?! FRIDAY?” _Who_ is touching him? And how can Peter make it stop, like, yesterday?

 _‘Stab wound, lower right abdomen. Progress of healing suggests initial injury occurred several hours ago.’_ There’s a lady there too? She sounds kinda scary. His identity-

“What the fuck? You got stabbed? Why didn’t Karen- Peter, c’mon, up time. Kid.”

 

_Kid?_

 

Mr. Stark?

 

“Yeah kid, it’s me. Good afternoon.”

 _‘It is currently 3:24 A.M. I believe you mean ‘good morning’.’_ The female voice from before ( _not Karen, not Karen, FRIDAY?_ ) speaks up again. Peter cracks open an eye, and lets everything clear up again. Mr. Stark, in the Iron Man suit — that explains the grip — standing over him. Concerned?

Mr. Stark scoffs. “FRI-”

“‘s not a good mornin’.” He reaches up, flexes his fingers. He can feel the cold, sticky coagulated blood coating his gloves as his fingers move away from his palm. Gross.

“Oh, thank _god_ \- you scared the shit outta me, FRIDAY sent me a message telling me you’d come _here_ and passed out- why didn’t you call?” Under the stern voice is sadness, Peter notes. That sadness- _he_ caused it. Suddenly, he feels a little heavier.

“Just a stab wound, Mr. Stark. _Lightly stabbed_.”

“Really? You’ve bled all over my couch, and- and you’re making Brooklyn-99 jokes.”

Peter winces. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. C’mon, we’re getting you to the medbay.” A hand stretches across his vision, and Peter gratefully takes it. Standing- just _thinking_ about standing is a challenge in itself. Pivoting into an upright position is painful enough, and it leaves Peter panting in an attempt to not cry. That’d be embarrassing.

“You good?”

“Yeah- yeah.” He’s still gasping for breaths. _Egh_.

“Right, up we get.” Mr. Stark pulls him up.

 

It was stupid of him to think it’d be that easy. Peter cries out as his knees buckle (again), and he’s pretty sure his grip around the Iron Man armour leaves a dent when a metal-clad arm brushes against the wound.

" _Fff_ \- ow. Ow. Ow ow _ow_.”

“ _Shit_. Are you okay? You still with me? Peter?”

“Y-yeah, I’m- I’m-”

 

The black swallows everything up again, this fine without any warning.

 

" _Peter_ -!”

 

* * *

 

“Honestly, kid, you’re gonna give me a heart attack. You’re lucky it was _just_ a big head rush from your blood loss. Don’t do that again?”

 

He’s warm. Peter lazily stretches out, like a cat in the sunlight, and grasps at something. That’s warm too, although it tenses slightly when he pulls it in and doesn’t release it. It’s warm. He likes being warm.

“Jesus, what the- Peter? You with me?”

 

He nuzzles closer to the thing- an arm? He hears a soft huff.

“Alright, you bossy octopus. Budge up.” Whatever cloud he’s lying on dips a little, then there’s an even warmer thing next to him.

“Mis’er Stark…?”

“Go back to sleep, octo-kid.”

 

This time, when everything fades back into anonymity, it’s because of the hand slowly ruffling his hair.


	2. Bloody hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony gets injured on the battlefield. Peter freaks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i larb these idiots a lot

Peter looks over to Tony, over to where he’s kneeling. The armour is in pieces next to him, broken pieces from the arm and parts of the chest lying discarded. It’s not right. But that’s not all that’s wrong with what Peter can see. He squints a little.

 

There’s blood on Mr. Stark’s hands.

 

Lots of it.

 

Too much of it.

 

“Mr. Stark!” He’s lucky that the fight is mostly over. He can still hear the crackling of energy from Vision’s mind stone, and the pattering of gunfire from Rhodey. But- But Tony… Peter slams his run to a halt right in front of him, and tries to ignore all else in favour of his senses. Gunfire- no. His heart pounding in his ears- no. He needs- he needs to-

 

There’s too much going on all around Peter for him to single out the usually-steady heartbeat he knows belong to Tony. And yeah, he’s freaking out. Just a little bit.

“Karen! Karen, put me through to FRIDAY!” Karen’s voice is unusually concerned when she quietly replies with an ‘ _On it’_ , and there’s a crackle before-

 _‘Mr. Parker, Tony has suffered a laceration to his chest. While not life-threatening, the unsanitary conditions of his current surroundings are not viable for a safe recovery.’_ Neither AI sounds unconcerned, and Peter recalls that Mr. Stark is basically their dad. They’re panicking too.

Peter tries to ignore the panic rearing its ugly head as he looks at Mr. Stark, blood coating his hands, vaguely shell-shocked look on his face, and some part of him decide to step up to the task of protecting his mentor for once. After all, Tony takes care of him when he gets hurt… so he should help Tony, right?

 

Peter loops an arm around Tony’s waist and stands slowly, grunting slightly under the extra weight from the armour. It’s heavy. Each step is clunky and robotic, and Peter tries to ignore the sensation in his chest (Mr. Stark would call it the ‘kicked puppy look’) that rises up whenever a small curse of noise of pain escapes his mentor. Tony’s probably trying to hide it from him (he’s thankful), but given his hearing… it doesn’t work well.

 

It doesn’t work at all.

 

There’s an abandoned house in his line of sight, and while it isn’t the best shelter, it’s good enough to keep Tony safe while the others finish up the fight. He’s not sure if he’ll have to go back out, but… He’ll keep an ear out on the comms.

“I’m- I’m gonna get you to that house, okay? Mr. Stark? I’m gonna get you somewhere safe.” He’s stuttering. It’s kind of mortifying, because he has to be certain of everything so he can be reassuring for his mentor.

“Thanks, kid.”

“FRIDAY? How is he?”

 _‘No major blood loss yet. Just some exhaustion.’_ He nods.

“Th- thanks.”

 

_Step, drag. Clunk. Step, drag. Clunk._

 

_Clunk-!_

“Whoa-” Peter leans down quickly, and makes sure that when he catches Tony, his arm is nowhere near the laceration or the scar where the arc reactor once was (he knows how it’s delicate, and he knows how Tony still gets phantom aches more often than not. He’s not causing any more pain than necessary). He hears a not-so nice curse, mumbled almost imperceptibly, and raises an eyebrow.

“No need for that language, Mr. Stark!” The false-levity is easier to manage that to start drowning in his hopelessness. This _sucks_. Maybe, if he keeps talking, he can help distract Tony from the pain of walking until they get to the shelter.

“Kid, we’re in an active war zone here. If there’s any need for this language, it’s here.” A _particularly_ loud explosion rings out in the distance. Peter winces — the noise is really kinda painful on his ears.

“Well- you’ve got me in a box. You’re right about that.”

“Mhm.” Peter stumbles slightly, and hisses as his ankle twists a little. With the added weight of Mr. Stark and the Iron Man armour, he nearly buckles. But- the house is right in front of them.

“We’re here.” Peter turns himself slightly so his body slams into the dusty wooden door, and the almost-ruin of a house nearly shudders in response. Doesn’t exactly _feel_ the safest, but it’s better than being in front of gunfire and artillery rounds. Peter looks around slowly, taking in details. It’s a pretty sparsely decorated house, and the previous residents probably left in a hurry.

 

There’s a bed, though. The mattress looks thin and uncomfortable, but it’s better than the floor. Each step echoes around the floorboards, but Peter slowly leads Tony to the mattress and sits him down.

 

And then falls down himself. There’s blood on _his_ hands too, now. It’s cold. He feels kinda sick. His ankle is on goddamn fire, and he can just see blood on Mr. Stark’s hands and on his face. It’s all wrong.

 

He stands again. There has to be a basin around or something, and hopefully flowing water. He has to clean the injury on Mr. Stark’s chest, before it gets infected.

 

It’s not just to get rid of the ( _wrongwrongwrong_ ) blood on their hands.

 

He stumbles a little on his steps each time, a slight limp entering his gait, and when he crouches down to check under the sink, he falls down with a thud.

“Kid?” The voice is tired, but concerned, and Peter has to fight back the sudden urge to curl up next to the man (where he knows they’re safe).

“I’m fine, Mr. Stark. Please stay there.” He coughs when the cupboard opens — there’s a helluva lot of dust in there. But there _is_ a metal wash basin and a clearly well-used wash cloth. Peter drags it out, slams it on top of the counter, and gently twists the faucet, praying for the best.

 

For a few seconds, nothing happens, and Peter almost bursts into tears. Everything is stressful and terrible.

 

 _Drip_.

 

The faucet sputters, and then water starts spurting out, and Peter nearly crawls into the sink to enjoy the small miracle.

 

(He doesn’t.)

 

He fills the basin with the hottest water that comes out of the tap, and tries to spill as little as possible on the way back to Mr. Stark. Given his ankle, and the unsteady floorboards, a little gets spilled, but… it’s unavoidable, even if the splashes send small dust plumes around the place again.

“Peter?” He rounds the corner to the small bedroom again, and Mr. Stark has an incredulous look on his face at the basin. Peter lifts it slightly.

“We’re covered in blood. It’s gross, and you’re gonna get an infection if you don’t clean that wound.”

Tony squints at him slightly. “Valid point. You good though?”

“Hm?”

“You good? You’re not like… hiding a mortal injury or something, are you?”

Peter makes a face at Tony.

“That was _one_ time.”

“And I lost about 5 years of my life panicking about it. So, you hurt?” Peter shrugs.

“Might have sprained my ankle at some point. It’s not _that_ bad though, I promise. I just gotta- clean that blood up.” He stumbles forward for the basin, but Tony nudges it away from him and stares with a critical eye. Yeah, maybe his ankle is fractured or something… it hurts too much to just be a sprain at this point.

“Nah-ah-ah, I’m cleaning me up. You, however…? Stay off that ankle.”

“What? It’s just a twist, Mr. Stark.”

 

Twist. He said _twist_ , instead of _sprain_ like the first time. Maybe he can hope Mr. Stark hasn’t noticed the slip up?

 

“You said it was a sprain a second ago, now it’s a twist? Please don’t hide those things from me, kid. I can’t let you back out to help if you aren’t telling me how bad it is.”

 

Ah.  

 

Tony’s discovered a weakness — Peter always folds when people sound upset. Always.

 

He deflates a little.

“Maybe fractured.”

“Jesus _shit_ \- I’ll take care of me, you- go elevate your ankle or something. Keep it from swelling.”

“Might be a little late for that…” Peter stumbles over to one of the small wooden chairs in the room and sits down heavily on it. His ankle is _really_ throbbing now.

 

And there’s still blood on his gloves. He peels them off and rests them on the table next to him. Having his hands uncovered is pretty freeing, to be honest.

 

“When’d you hurt yourself?” It’s an innocent attempt at small talk — Peter knows this. But he doesn’t want to bring any guilt upon his mentor — god knows the man has a guilt complex to rival his own.

“Oh- it doesn’t matter.”

“It kind of does. If it’s a break, it might have already set wrong, and then it would need breaking again to fix it.” He pales slightly.

“When I was carrying you, right after you fell.” He hears a quiet sigh.

"Thought so.”

“'s not your fault, Mr. Stark. Don’t blame yourself.”

 

Tony opens his mouth, probably to argue, when Karen opens a comm line suddenly. Peter holds up a hand.

“Karen?”

_‘Colonel Rhodes says the fight is over, and wants to know where you guys are.'_

“Tell Mr. Rhodey that we’re in a building nearby- just transmit out co-ords. Tell ‘im Mr. Stark is hurt.” He’s about to speak again when Tony makes a noise of protest.

“You’re hurt too, kid. Karen, tell Rhodey that we’re _both_ unsuitable for further mission-related activities.”’

 

Peter grumbles, but there’s no real heat behind it.

_‘Transmitting data. ETA on Avengers’ arrival: ten minutes.’_

“Cool, cool.”

“Kid, keep off your leg ‘til then. Keeps the swelling down, remember?”

“Okay, Mr. Stark.”

 

He watches as Tony washes the blood from his hands, and some small pit of tension in his chest unwinds. Sure, they’re both battered, but it’s a little less scary now that the blood is gone. Peter yawns, suddenly exhausted.

“We did good?”

He hears Tony hum. “We did good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!


	3. Insomnia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out, stopping super-bad guys can leave its marks.
> 
> Or, Peter has to come to terms with the fact that possibly, maybe he's a little messed up after Toomes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel kinda bad for whumping peter like this but eh 
> 
> [Chapter contains mentions / references to PTSD]

He blinks awake abruptly — not that he was ever really _asleep_ anyway. Sleep has just been evading him recently, and it’s not the first time this has happened to him.

 

He can’t really remember when it started. Maybe a few weeks before the Vulture incident, when he was still new to superheroing and stressed about everything. Maybe. But… as a kid, Peter never would have imagined that sleep, the thing he used to reject in favour of exploring or doing something new, would become so scarce. He gets, what, maybe a few short hours of it per night? Definitely not enough. Peter yawns, and stretches his arms upwards. There’s a slight tingling in his fingers that is telling of a night of being shoved under his armpits for warmth (again). He wiggles them to try and disperse the feeling. It’s odd, and not the cool kind.

 

Peter sits up woozily. He’s _exhausted_. The past few days have been restricted to only a few hours of sleep a night, at best, and now he can’t even get _that_. Patrol, sure, that takes up a few hours of valuable sleep time, but… this time, his brain just _can’t_ stop churning thoughts. Random, nonsensical things, and sleep has become something of a rarity.

 

Peter swings his legs over the side of the bed, and forces himself to stand up (he wobbles slightly). May is asleep right now, and she _needs_ her sleep, even if he can’t get any himself. So slowly, Peter tiptoes over to the space below the attic where his suit is, and pulls it down from above.

 

If he can’t sleep, he’ll at least go do something _productive_. He doesn’t have any homework to do, and there’s no point just doing nothing. He spares a second to ponder over his curfew, though. He already did a brief patrol earlier on in the night, and if he goes out again and gets caught, May won’t be happy with him. Peter knows it’s just her way of trying to keep him safe, and it was one of the terms they agreed upon after she found out he was Spider-Man, but it doesn’t stop him from feeling just a little bit restricted. He yawns, and he stands despite how his eyelids feel slightly too heavy, and he really wants to just rub at the absent itch surrounding his eyes themselves. He slips the suit on and pulls the mask over his face. The display lights up.

_‘Peter, it’s late. Should I send a notification to Mr. Stark?’_

“What? No!” He whispers harshly, waving his hand wildly, “It’s nothing, I’m just gonna patrol again.”

_‘Did you have another nightmare?’_

 

Peter winces slightly. It was only after the first few times abruptly woke up in the middle of the night, heart racing and wearing the mask that Karen came to the conclusion that his fight with Toomes had left him… a little nervous, and that could become apparent when he slept. Of course the hyper-intelligent AI in the suit would pick up on that.

“No, it’s- it’s not a nightmare. I just can’t sleep, and I got no homework, so I’m gonna patrol because I can’t wake up May or Ned just because I can’t sleep.”

He hears what might be the AI equivalent of a sigh, then:

_‘Alright, Peter. Try to take it easy.’_

“I will, Karen. It’s just an observing patrol tonight.”

He slips out the window, and starts swinging. It’s a little cold, but it feels like it’s gonna be an okay patrol tonight.

 

...

 

It was not, in fact, an okay patrol tonight.

 

* * *

 

By the time his eyes are nearly burning from exhaustion, it’s about 4 A.M, and he’s stopped a carjacking and a mugging. His hands are shaking, _really_ hard, and he kinda just wants to curl up into a ball on the rooftop he’s perching on and go to sleep.

 

It’s a shame he _can’t goddamn sleep_. Is it even a real thing? Does it even _exist_?

 

No matter how exhausted he is, his eyes refuse to stay closed and he just _can’t_.

 

He nearly bursts into tears on the spot. Not sleeping is just… not a good experience.

_‘Would you like me to message Mr. Stark now? You are presenting heightened levels of cortisol and adrenaline. Prolonged levels of these hormones can be damaging to the immune system.’_

Peter thinks about it. He _could_ let Karen send a distress signal out, but then Mr. Stark would almost certainly make him go up to the compound to stop him from doing something stupid when he should be with May.

“No, no… I’m good. I’m good.”

_‘Are you sure? Your vitals aren’t functioning optimally for this time.’_

“Yeah, no, I’m just- I’m just a little tired. I’m just gonna sit down for a while, Karen.”

 _‘Okay, Peter. But if you fall asleep, I will send a message to Mr. Stark.’_ Peter wants to object, to disagree with her, but she probably has a point and if he somehow manages to fall asleep out here, he’s defenceless.

 

So he needs a distraction while he regains his breath. Easy.

“Why can’t I sleep?”

_‘Insomnia isn’t an uncommon ailment for people who are awake late into the night, or see frightening things. You meet both of these conditions.’_

“Maybe.” Peter fiddles with a piece of gravel, rolling it around in his palm. _Yeah_ , there’s a reason he doesn’t like to think about the _big_ bads he’s had to face off (Toomes). Maybe, just _maybe_ because it’s slightly traumatising. But it’s been awhile since that happened, so why isn’t he over it yet? He huffs a breath of frustration and rubs at his eyes again.

_‘Anxiety and stress are common factors in insomnia patients, too.’_

“So I’m stressed?”

_‘Almost certainly.’_

 

Yeah, maybe that’s it. Peter remembers way back when he first started swinging around. Yeesh, it _sucked_ back then. He’s gotten more used to it since, but… that’s just it. He’s gotten used to the stress.

 

Huh.

 

That’s kinda depressing, if he thinks about it.

“Wonder if Mr. Stark gets insomnia.”

_‘FRIDAY says he does, frequently at that.’_

He blinks. “Wait, are you talking to FRIDAY?”

 _‘No, I’ve_ been _talking to FRIDAY. I can’t keep you safe if I’m preoccupied, Peter. She’s worried it may be a symptom of PTSD in you.’_

“Whoa, whoa- I do _not_ have PTSD. No flashbacks, no nothing. I’m just permanently anxious.” He stands, probably too abruptly. He’s _fine_. Really. It’s just a little sleeplessness.

 

Which is also a symptom of PTSD.

 

 _Shit_. Suddenly drained, he drops into a crouch. It’s too late / early to be dealing with _that_ type of thinking.

 

_‘Extreme anxiety and nightmares can also be symptoms. If you feel isolated, you should probably talk to May or Mr. Stark about it. They won’t judge you for not telling them about your nightmares yet.’_

“What? I know they won’t- I’m- They…” Neither of them know about it yet. Peter makes a face. “I’m gonna head home now.” He stands, knees uncomfortably weak, and breaks into a sprint towards the edge of the roof before _leaping_ off as far as possible; as hard as possible. By the time he manages to swing up past the impenetrable walls of buildings, the sun is coming up; dancing orange and yellow over the tops of gray and black. It’s- it’s pretty. He squints at where Stark Tower adorns the skyline before firing off another web, and pulling himself towards the street in a graceful curve. Peter huffs. God, he’s so _tired_.

 

It’s moreso memory than conscious thought that guides him back to Queens. And it’s moreso reflex than being aware that stops him from slamming into the wall of the apartment. It’s not the first time that’s nearly happened, and some nagging instinct tells him it won’t be the last. He ignores the slight prickling sensation at the base of his skull as he scales the wall, lifts open the window and slips back inside.

 

It’s warm in his room, and it smells like coffee. The light in the hall is on, and his door… is open…

 

Peter turns around and bites back an unbecoming yelp at the sight of a tired-looking May perched on his bed, coffee in hand, squinting at him.

 

It’s honestly the scariest thing he’s seen all night.

 

Peter freezes up. Placatingly, he raises his hands up.

“I can explain.”

She raises an eyebrow, and gestures for him to speak. It scares him how quiet she is. Even when she’s angry, May is usually loud, and Peter can’t tell if the quietness is because she’s tired, or because she’s reached _that_ scary level of angry where she goes calm and quiet.

“Please do.”

Peter grimaces; tents his hands and lets them fall back down to his side. He sucks in a breath.

“I couldn’t sleep.” It comes out rushed, but given the softening of May’s eyes, she’s heard and understood.

“And you chose to patrol _because_ …?” It’s harder to form a reply like this, faced directly with the question. Why did he go out? Because he couldn’t sleep? Or because he doesn’t like not doing anything (anymore).

“I’d already done all my homework, and- and I kept waking up in the night and didn’t want to wake _you_ up, so I thought I’d go on a sweeping patrol just to make sure nobody was like, about to get run over or die in a burning building-” May hold up a hand, and Peter bites down on the rest of the rambling explanation.

“You’re restless. I get that. But you have a _curfew_. If you got hurt…”

“But I _didn’t_.”

“That’s not the point, Peter. C’mon, what’s wrong?”

 

Peter tugs off the mask. Turns it over in his hands ‘til the eye lenses are staring back up at him, and runs his thumb along the fabric.

“Sleeping is hard.”

“C’mere.” He complies, and sits down on his bed next to May, who pulls him into a loose hug. He rests his head on her shoulders, and lets his eyes close a little.

“What’s wrong?”

“My brain never shuts up.” He whines. May’s hand has come up to his hair and starts running through it in that way that just makes him _melt_ into a puddle under her hands.

“I know _that_ , baby. What else?”

“Toomes. Sometimes- sometimes I get a few nightmares, nothing that bad, and it’s just-”

“They really shake you up, huh…”

“Kinda an understatement.”

“He can’t hurt you anymore, you know that, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘course I do, but- I don’t like them. I can still _feel_ everything that happened, and-”

“Peter. Baby, calm down.” He doesn’t try to resist when May pulls him in closer, so his chin rests on her shoulder and he can hear her heartbeat clearly. It’s strong and steady, and some tension between his shoulder blades finally unwinds. His eyelids flutter.

“‘m tired.”

“I can imagine. Go to sleep, Peter.” The pressure on his scalp increases a little. He sighs, content.

“M’kay. G’night.”

 

* * *

 

(At some point, he feels May shifting him into a more comfortable position, but the pressure from next to him doesn’t leave.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> b e a t u p y o u r f a v e s


	4. "No, stop!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Insomnia isn't the only problem Peter's fight with Toomes has caused.
> 
> (Or, Tony learns that he should definitely try to talk to Peter about what happened on homecoming.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> goddd i love [hURTING PETER] dad tony

“-ony?”

 

 _Nope_.

 

“Tony?”

 

It’s way too early for somebody to want him awake. People are always complaining that he ‘doesn’t sleep enough’ and it’s ‘not healthy’, and now they want him awake? _No_.

 

“Tony? Tony, you need to wake up.” He groans, and rolls over slightly. There’s a pleasant heat next to him, and he tries to snuggle further into it. It shifts backwards a little bit, but not completely out of his reach. He whines.

“Tony, get up. You need to get up.” His eyelids are still way too heavy, and-

 

The comforter is yanked off his body. The cold air is decidedly unpleasant, especially when he had been so warm previously. His eyes slam open as he involuntarily jerks his body off the bed.

“ _Shit_ -!” He coughs when his back hits the floor. It’s because of the surprise more than pain, but he still groans for an unnecessarily long time. This is _not_ the way he wanted to wake up.

“Tony-! Are you okay?” Pepper’s voice is above him, so he playfully squints up at her. That was a dick move.

“What…? I’m good.” His voice is still pinched as he tenderly sits up, rubbing at the sore spot on his back.

“Okay, that’s good. You’re awake now.” Her voice sounds _off_ , not in the panicked way of an imminent threat, but in the more subtle way that comes with being emotional. He blinks to clear his eyes up.

“Pep, what…? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Pepper looks at him, probably notices the names on the tip of his tongue, and sighs fondly. “So are Rhodey and Happy before you go asking.”

“Then why’d you wake me up?” Pepper’s face is grim.

“FRIDAY?” Tony looks up, frowning. For Pepper to have FRIDAY tell him… something is wrong in the compound, then. Why isn’t she asleep?

_‘You had asked me to inform you if there were any disturbances in Mr. Parker’s room. There has been a disturbance.’_

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

 _‘I tried. You were deeply asleep. Ms. Potts woke up before you did.’_ Tony smiles sheepishly. Maybe he _did_ need to sleep.

“Shit. Sorry, Pep.”

She smiles back at him, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “That’s fine. But listen.”

 _‘Mr. Parker appears to be distressed.’_ His head clears up. Distress? No wonder Pepper looked concerned.

“Distressed as in what? Like, not sleeping? Anxious?”

_‘Elevated heart rate and irregular movement would suggest a nightmare.’_

Tony frowns. The kid shouldn’t be having nightmares. Nothing bad has happened recently, unless it’s some old traumas rearing their heads again. Concern rises up in his chest and he can almost feel his heart rate pick up a little.

 

Damn kid, making him _care_. Tony stands up and brushes off his pyjamas (not that there’s any dust anyway).

“Known cause?”

 _‘Audio recordings suggest it’s a result of his fight against the Vulture.’_ Even FRIDAY’s voice turns a little bit softer here, a bit more concerned, and Tony freezes.

 

The kid’s fight with the Vulture… they haven’t really discussed it. It’s only been a few weeks since it happened, but- Tony still hasn’t asked about it. Of course it would screw the kid up a little — he went through that plane crash in his homemade onesie of a suit. He definitely got hurt, and definitely had to see and do some things that would leave their scars on his psyche. And he hasn’t tried to get the kid to talk about it yet. It’s safe to assume that May probably knows about the nightmares, not in too much detail most likely, and Peter would have been bottling up whatever happened that night. It’s been weeks. That wound has just been _festering_.

 

Jesus.

 

Tony stands and pulls a night gown over his shoulders. He is _not_ just going to leave Peter to fend for himself. Him doing that is the reason _this_ is happening.

“Anything else?”

 _‘Karen is worrying that it may be a sign of PTSD, alongside frequent insomnia and night terrors.’_ PTSD. _No_. Peter- Peter isn’t meant to wind up like _him_. That’s literally the entire reason Tony kept himself away from Peter — to prevent the kid from being dragged into these types of traumas. If whatever happened that night was bad enough to traumatise Peter _that_ much…

 

This is his fault.

“Wait, what? Insomnia- why hasn’t he told me? Why hasn’t Karen told me?”

 _‘From what Karen is telling me, he said he was going to, but forgot. He asked her not to tell you until he felt he was ready.’_ Yeah, no. Tony knows that excuse better than anyone. Now it’s just a case of narrowing down the causes to why Peter wouldn’t tell him. Sure, there’s been a little less naivety and more guarded behaviours from Peter these past few weeks, but… It’s either embarrassment, mistrust, or- or some urge to appear unaffected because Tony took away the suit. The kid thinks it’s gonna happen again.

“‘Fuck. I should have known…” He rubs at his face tiredly.

 

Well, there’s no question about what he’s gonna do next — he’s gotta wake Peter up. God knows the kid doesn’t deserve to stew in his own trauma like that. Especially given that most of that trauma probably could have been avoided if he had had the better suit, or back-up.

“Tony. Go make sure he’s okay.” Pepper’s voice is tired but soft, and Tony drops a chaste kiss on her lips. God, there are no words for how much he loves her. Her eyes are warm when he pulls away.

“I will. Go back to sleep, milady.” Tony pulls the comforter up to Pepper’s neck before he walks out of the room.

 

Instantly, he’s greeted with a rush of cooler air. He shudders. As he expected (and knows), the halls of the Avengers’ levels are empty as he walks, and his lone footsteps echo hauntingly through the halls. He’s not really complaining though — it means he _can_ just walk around in his pyjamas without being accused of being arrogant or something equally stupid. As he walks along the corridor to the room he knows it Peter, he tries to think of how he can try and help the kid.

 

First, he can apologise for taking the suit. Looking back, that had been a dick move birthed entirely of his anger, and all it had ended up doing was creating an open gateway for traumas. He probably should reassure the kid that he isn’t going to take it again as well — at least then he’ll have something to fall back on if things get tough. Tony’s experienced in the field of alter-egos; he knows the reassurance that comes with becoming the better part of yourself and escaping the pressures and expectations people have of him. He knows how it helps just to be able to do something _good_. Tony knows how much it can help just to forget about the rest of the world for a while. He’s pretty sure Spider-Man for Peter is the same escape Iron Man is for him.

 

Second, he can offer a shoulder for the kid to lean on. C’mon, he’s a _teenage_ superhero. Alongside all the wacky powers and the sudden responsibility lying on his shoulders, his emotions are probably a mess. Tony doesn’t miss being fifteen. He cried. A lot. And spent the rest of the time stressed out or angry. So Peter, having all _that_ responsibility and the recent loss of a parent figure _and_ traumatic events caused by fighting his own fair share of crooks and villains, has it a thousand times worse than _he_ did as a teenager. In fact, it’s a miracle the kid hasn’t lost his mind yet. Tony swears some part of him to be there for the kid, because if he can’t help prevent traumatic events from scarring Peter, he can at least help him through it instead of leaving him to shoulder it alone.

 

He remembers how hard _that_ sucked as well. Nobody deserves to suffer like that.

 

He can see Peter’s door by the time he shakes himself out of his thoughts, and he picks up his pace to a gentle jog until he reaches it. Of course, he can’t hear anything through the door because the kid’s room’s walls are soundproofed — he learned on the flight back from Germany that the kid could get debilitating sensory overloads and migraines, and doesn’t want to see him suffer like _that_ again — to give him some peace. He frowns for what feels like the millionth time that night.

 

For all he knows, Peter’s nightmare might have resolved itself already. If it has, he’d just be bursting in and disrupting an already fitful night. Sleep is important for the kid.

 

“FRIDAY, bring up the audio recordings to my phone?”

 

Maybe he was slightly unprepared for just how bad it would be.

 

The first thing that’s clear are sniffles. Tiny, hurt noises, and the occasional gasp of fear. Tony’s heart sinks. It’s when he hears a very quiet, very subdued whimper and what sounds like a plea for help that he’s definitely certain the kid is still unconscious.

“FRIDAY, let me in.” There’s a quiet click as the mechanical lock is overridden and opens, and Tony steps in.

 

He can hear the quiet shifting of fabric, and the unsteady pattern of panicked breaths is even more distressing in person. The kid’s hurting, _bad_. And Tony knows it’s not the physical kind of hurt.

“Peter? Buddy, you need to wake up.” His voice is soft, gentle — unlike every tone he’s ever used before. It doesn’t feel out of place, though. It just feels natural, especially given how… small Peter is.

 

There’s no response to his question. Just a shuddering intake of breath, and what looks like Peter curling into a ball. Something in his chest aches at the sight, and he has to let out a loaded sigh to relieve the pressure. Poor kid. He takes a step closer, unsure what to do. He’s not good with traumatised kids having nightmares.

“Kid, you’re safe. You’re safe.”

 

He lays a hand on Peter’s shoulder to try and bring the kid out of his nightmare.

 

Doesn’t exactly work.

“No, stop!” The sudden cry surprises him, and he yanks his hand back as if it was burned.

 

Tony is aware that his eyes are wide, but he doesn’t know how to stop it. That’s bad. That’s _really_ bad. That reaction- that’s not a very good one. What did the kid _go_ through…?

“Kid?” His voice is soft, like an exhale.

“Stop- I can’t breathe-! I’m stuck! Somebody-!” Peter’s voice is strangled, like he’s actually choking. He sounds hurt, desperate. Alone. Scared.

 

It’s a punch to the chest, swift and merciless.

 

Jesus Christ, he was just a _kid_ stopping an arms dealer in a weaponized wingsuit. By himself. Who knows what he faced, but he crashed a plane into Coney Island, and presumably was hurt in the process, god knows how badly. He still has the kid’s homemade mask that Happy picked up from the scene.

 

“...help me…” The quiet whimper is the straw that broke the camel’s back. Tony strides forwards and nudges the kid’s shoulders slightly harder.

“Peter, wake up! It isn’t real, you’re safe! You’re okay.”

 

Peter’s eyes snap open at the same time he bolts upright, and Tony only just has enough time to dodge the sloppily thrown punch that would have hit him in the gut otherwise. Tony sucks in a breath and weighs up his options. He could stay down, but Peter is _traumatised_. He could stand up and risk getting decked almost immediately.

 

Yeah, he may be smart, but he’s never claimed to have common sense. He stands.

“Peter! Calm down, it’s just me! It’s Tony!”

 

The erratic, panicked breaths turn silent.

 

“M-Mr. Stark?” Peter’s ragged voice is a relief to hear. And then it hurts his heart, because the kid’s voice should _not_ sound so scared. So beaten down and worn.

“Yeah, it’s me.” He risks a step forward, arms raised-

 

-and nearly falls backwards when Peter’s weight slams against his chest. It’s not malicious, it’s just-

 

It’s a hug. Peter is _hugging_ him when he is arguably one of the main reasons the kid is so traumatised. Tony can feel Peter’s hands shuffling occasionally at his back, trying to maintain a steady grip. Like that’s the only thing keeping the kid grounded. That is- that’s _heartbreaking_. Somewhat awkwardly, Tony returns the embrace.

_“I’m sorry.”_

 

Oh, _no_. Now the kid’s apologising to him…? Tony should be apologising. _He_ was the one who knew Peter stopped Toomes, but never bothered to ask if he was okay afterward. Tony tightens his hold on Peter (and tries to ignore how much it hurts when he feels how hard Peter is trembling).

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.” Peter doesn’t respond. Instead, he loosens his grip and sits back down heavily on the bed.

 

Tony takes a second to just _see_ the kid. Maybe to see what he had been blind to. Peter is shaking. His gaze is downcast, and the way he wraps his arms around himself is telling of a coping mechanism that is so vulnerable that Tony actually feels his heart break a little for him.

 

He’s not okay. He hasn’t been for a while.

 

Tony sits down next to Peter, and pretends to not see the way he flinches.

“Hey. It’s okay. You’re alright.” It’s weird, keeping his tone so smooth and even — he’s more used to using sarcasm as a front rather than being genuine. It’s weird, but not completely unwelcome. But the question of _what_ still weighs heavily on his mind.

“Do you want to talk about it?” This time, when it’s quiet, Tony expects it. If he were Peter, he wouldn’t want to talk about it either.

“I had a nightmare.”

 

Both eyebrows fly up without his permission. But he can’t reject the olive branch, especially with how fragile Peter is.

“About…?”

“Toomes. I lost May. I lost you. Ned, MJ, everyone. I lost everyone.” Peter’s voice cracks slightly as he speaks.

 

 _Christ_. He doesn’t know what happened that night. But it- it-

“It’s okay. We’re all fine, see?”

Why would Peter think he’d lose everything? Why-?

 

A sniffle draws Tony out of his mind as fast as he had delved into it. _Right_. Thinking doesn’t matter right now. What _does_ matter is reassuring the kid _somehow_ , because he’s dealing with demons as big as Tony’s own with nobody he feels he can turn to.

 

He holds his arms open expectantly. Peter looks at him, doubtful (that expression hurts to see on the kid’s usually unguarded face), and Tony twitches his head in a gesture to come forwards.

“C’mere, kid. I’m not gonna make you or anything, just-”

 

And then he has an armful of still-trembling Peter Parker. He’ll stay for the rest of the night if it helps the kid out. It’s the least he can do.

“I’m so _tired_.” Peter whispers into his chest. He barely catches it.

“That’s okay. You take a break, okay? I’ll stay here.” He means it.

“Thanks, Mis’er Stark.”

“No prob, kid. I’m here for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whump me up  
> (whump me up inside)
> 
> can't whump up  
> (whump me up inside)
> 
> wHUMP ME


	5. Poisoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrols can be tough.
> 
> Being poisoned can be tough.
> 
> So you can probably imagine how Peter's day is going.
> 
> And you can probably imagine how Tony is freaking out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand now everything is from tony's pov lol
> 
> can't help it, he's easily whumpable

He’s in the lab when FRIDAY alerts him.

_‘Boss, Mr. Parker is entering the common room. He appears to be hurt.’_

Tony puts down the soldering iron carefully and takes off the heat-proof gloves.

“Any specifics? Gunshot, stab wound, that crazy old guy with the bag again?”

_‘Heightened respiratory rate and heart beat suggest a serious trauma; most likely a stabbing.’_

Tony stands and closes up the holo-file he was working on. That can wait now. Peter is always his priority, especially if the kid is hurt.

“FRIDAY, be a doll and lock up?” The holographic locks on the door start shutting down even as he enters the lift to the higher levels, and he has to commend FRIDAY on a job well done.

_‘Always, Boss.’_

 

His pace isn’t quite even as he journeys towards the common room.

 

(Yeah, Peter being hurt makes him panic a _lot_. Not only has he managed to make Tony care about him quickly and more deeply than most, but he’s also an idiot with a bad luck streak long enough to make crossing a black cat and a breaking a hall of mirrors look like a good time in comparison.)

 

Tony huffs. At least Peter is _nice_ when Tony tries to offer help. All he remembers from the other Avengers is a disinterest; a cold and detached feeling from the group. Especially after Ultron. Peter has grown up hearing about all the good and bad things Tony has done — he appreciates that the kid looks up to him despite that fact. It’s a genuine happiness.

 

A genuine happiness that quickly dies when he comes to a halt in the common room. It’s still — but not the normal kind of still that comes from an empty room. It’s the kind of still that comes from something innate being _wrong_. It might be the silence, who knows? But the very atmosphere of the room feels different. Unpleasant.

 

He whips his head around when he hears a quiet noise coming from behind the couches; a shuffling of fabric against fabric.

 

His steps are steady and don’t betray the shaky feeling in his chest as he walks closer to then past the couch, towards the noise.

 

It’s Peter, slumped in a corner, trembling hard, and pressing one hard to his abdomen. Tony can already see the blood. He runs over to the kid and drops down beside him.

“ _Shit_ -! Shit, Peter! Peter, can you hear me?”

“Mister Stark?” An unnaturally warm hand grabs his forearm. “Mr. Stark. It hurts. My stomach- please help me.” Tony feels the trembles running through Peter’s fingers after every harsh breath, and a pit of dread starts forming in his stomach. Tony pulls the mask off to expose glassy eyes and a pale face. Shock?

“You’re safe. I got you, kid.” He lets Peter wrap his arms around him, and reciprocates the gesture. That’s just Peter’s way of going for comfort, just like Tony just goes for basic human contact when he’s feeling particularly bad about something. That’s just how they roll.

 

That’s what Tony’s learned about the kid since Toomes. He’s learned about his parents’ accident (and he told Peter about Howard and Maria), he’s learned about Ben’s death, the bite, and his senses. Sometimes, Peter just needs a physical grounding when everything is too much for him. That’s understandable. It’s _human_.

 

Which is why now, with Peter needing a hug, is a bad sign. Generally when Peter is hurt after a patrol, he stays _away_ from people because he gets attuned to his senses and touch becomes too much to handle. This is the exact opposite. The kid’s turned into an octopus.

“Pete? I need to look at the wound. Could you…?”

Peter blinks at him once, and smiles dopily before relaxing his posture and laying back on the floor.

 

Tony winces at the wound. It’s not big or deep, it just looks… off. Doesn’t help that he can’t see all of it anyways — Peter’s still curled in slightly on himself. It’s an obvious defence mechanism, but it’s more of a hindrance right now.

“Peter, you need to let me see the injury. I know it hurts, but you need to straighten out. I can’t see it like this.”

 

Tony can tell just how hard Peter struggles to bite back a pained scream, and his heart aches for all the pain the kid is in. Peter doesn’t deserve to suffer like this.

 

His entire body goes cold, hands sweating, at the sight of the brown-blackish coagulation of blood around the wound. It’s definitely not natural. Tony closes his eyes; measures his breaths. _Calm_.

“Peter. Was there anything on the blade that stabbed you? Any obvious chemicals or poisons?”

He gets a groan. “I didn’t see anything.”

“Okay, that’s fine. You did great, octo-kid. Now just stay there, alright?” Tony peers more closely at the wound. Caused by a pointed weapon, definitely a knife, and already shows signs of early infection. Does it count as an infection if it’s poison?

“Mhm.”

 

Tony’s close up, observing the black discolouration and pus around the wound when Peter coughs for the first time, the noise wet and rattling. It’s like the sound he makes when he gets the first chesty cough of the winter, only it sounds more painful now.

“You alright?” He meekly asks. Maybe the kid’s coming down with something, too. That fits the ungodly streak of Parker luck.

“No.” Peter coughs again and again, to the point where Tony becomes concerned he’ll cough himself to death before the poison can actually start affecting him. He loops an arm under the kid’s armpits to help him upright (ignoring the cry of pain) and goes back to observing the injury. It’s gnarly, but he’s pretty sure that the poison is being held at bay by Peter’s healing factor. He looks out of the corner of his eye when Peter coughs again, and his eye follows the kid’s hand when it drops down to the floor, exhausted.

 

The gloves catch his attention, and not in the good way.

 

“It’s not raining outside, is it?” He keeps his tone neutral despite how the knotting sensation in his chest is intensifying.

“What…? No? It wasn’t when I was _out_ , at least…”

Tony sits up abruptly and grabs the kid’s hand. Turns it over so it faces the light, and squints.

“Your glove.”

“What?”

He flips over the limb again. One side is normal, the other…

 

It’s darker.

 

It’s not been raining.

 

Peter’s been coughing _blood_.

  


The poison is a lot faster acting than he thought, then.

 

“What’s wrong?” The thickness of Peter’s tone suddenly takes a much darker meaning.

“We have to get you to medbay, _now_. FRIDAY, get Helen down here.”

_‘On it.’_

“What’s happening?” Tony wants desperately to lie. To reassure the kid that he’ll be fine, and that they’re just going because he just wants to make sure nothing bad is going to happen to him. He can’t do it though. It feels like an abuse of Peter’s trust to do that.

“The poison’s spread further than I thought.” His voice is pinched.

 

He can’t lose Peter. They’ve come so far. Tony won’t let a mugger’s poison rip the kid from him.

 

If Peter dies… No. he can’t let himself fall into those thought traps. Peter isn’t going to die. Helen is gonna help, and so are the compound’s advanced medical facilities.

“Am I gonna die?”

“No. You’re gonna be fine. You’ve got a healing factor, right?” Peter nods. “Good. Time to show me what it’s worth, spider-kid.”

“Okay. I’ve got this.”

Tony huffs a laugh. “Yeah, you do. But Pete, I need you to be brave for me, okay?”

“Why?” The kid’s voice is so, so tired. He’s already suffered enough, and Tony wants to yell about the injustice of the world. But this suffering- it’s _necessary_. It’s necessary, or Peter will die.

“I’m going to have to pick you up to get you to the medbay without accelerating your heartbeat or the poison will spread. It’s going to hurt.”

“Tha’s fine. I’ll be okay.” Tony gives Peter a half smile. God knows the kid can probably use the reassurance right now.

 

Tony crouches down and scoops Peter up swiftly. What’s the saying — it’s better to rip off the bandaid?

 

Apparently not in this case. Peter’s grip on his arm tightens painfully, and the kid muffles a yell into his chest. Tony doesn’t move for a few seconds so Peter can get used to the pain, because if he starts walking now it’s just going to hurt the kid more. He could never do that to Peter.

 

He waits for the kid’s breaths to even out a little more before daring to move.

“You good now?” He asks mildly. He feels Peter nod slightly, but he doesn’t speak. Tony nods to himself. That’s okay.

 

He makes sure to keep his steps slow and steady as he walks to the medbay. Peter wheezes quietly in his arms, and he ups his pace a little. Maybe he’s panicking a little bit.

 

Helen is waiting, eyes concerned, when Tony walks in. Maybe the sterile smell of the room is slightly too much for Peter’s sense of smell, as he looks up blearily and wrinkles his nose.

“Smells bad.”

“Yeah, kid, I know.” He looks over to Helen. “How much has FRIDAY told you?” He gently sets Peter down on the hospital bed, ignoring how it hurts when the kid quietly groans and curls onto his injured side.

“Something about an unidentified poison in his bloodstream.” Her voice is gentle as she speaks, even as she helps coax Peter into a straighter position. Some of the tension in the kid’s shoulders has loosened, so Tony assumes he’s hurting a little less than before. He’s not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.

“Yeah, something like that. Can we talk about it outside?” It’s not that Tony doesn’t want Peter to know what’s happening, not at all. He just doesn’t want Peter to panic about it more than he already is. Helen nods, and steps into the hallway.

“I’ll be right back, kid. You stay here.”

“‘kay, Mr. Stark.” He ruffles Peter’s hair lightly, and walks out of the room. Helen is stood outside waiting with a concerned look on her face. She’s waiting for him to speak, he realises.

“He was stabbed. There’s some kind of discharge around the wound, and he’s running a fever. I think you might be able to get a sample of- of whatever that is from the pus.” Tony says. She frowns; tilts her head in thought.

“Any other symptoms? Nausea, excessive sweating…?”

“He, uh-” Tony thinks back to the darkened patches on Peter’s gloves. “He was coughing up blood. Not a lot. But it was still there.” She looks up sharply.

“I’ll take a swab of the wound and test it for known poisons. It might just be an anti-coagulating agent, and if it is his body should fix the damage quickly once it’s neutralised, but it’s still worth testing in case it’s a hemotoxin or anything of the like.”

The medical terminology flies right over his head. He blinks dumbly at Helen until she takes pity and elaborates.

“I’ll test the discharge. You just keep him there, okay?”

Tony nods. “Right.”

 

They walk back into the room. Peter’s no worse than he was when they left (thank god), but he looks more tired. To be honest, Tony can’t blame the kid. He’s probably been fighting crime all night, and now this is happening.

“Hey, Pete. Helen’s just gonna come clean up your injury, okay?” Peter’s expression twitches in understanding, but his eyes don’t open.

“Cool.” He mumbles. He doesn’t even flinch as Helen dabs and swipes at the discharge, which is telling of how tired he is. At some point (after a time where Peter sucks in a harsh breath from the pain), Tony’s hand had started running through Peter’s hair. It’s worth it though — not only is it calming for Tony, but the kid is putty beneath his grip.

“You good?” Tony’s voice remains quiet. He doesn’t want to cause an overload.

“Tired. Stomach hurts.”

“Yeah, I can imagine. Sorry your night’s sucked, kid.”

“Not your fault.” Peter says, and it’s followed by a series of hacking coughs. The blood that comes up (while still incredibly alarming) is darker than the fire-truck red blood that was present earlier. There’s less of it, too, but it doesn’t stop Tony from looking out of the door’s window into the corridor. He knows it’s unlikely Helen is done yet, but he’s still panicking a little.

 

Tony turns back to look at Peter when he hears a quiet groan, and hisses at the sheen of sweat developing on the boy’s head. He looks around- _there_. There’s a small basin and cloth in the bedside table next to the kid’s bed. Tony crouches down and grabs the bowl, filling it at the nearby sink and heads back. He’s unfortunate enough to catch a glimpse of the wound on Peter’s abdomen as he passes — it’s still gross looking, all red and angry, but he’s pretty sure the red is fading to pink along the outsides of the wound. That’s slightly better than it was, then. He lays the damp cloth on Peter’s forehead. It looks like it’s helping, if the further relaxation of the kid’s posture is anything to go by.

 

Some time goes by like that; the same pattern repeating itself. Peter will start to look uncomfortable again, and Tony re-dampens the cloth after wiping away the excess sweat. It’s kind of calming. And at some point Peter grabbed his hand, so he’s got some way of measuring how lucid he is.

 

(He wouldn’t deprive the kid of that comfort anyway.)

 

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, voice small. Tony meets his eyes, and _feels_ older just by seeing the exhaustion in the boy’s expression.

“What’s up, kid?”

“I’m tired.”

 

Peter’s vulnerable right now, but he’s _trusting_ Tony to protect him. Tony can tell by the way the kid doesn’t worry about opening his eyes to observe his surroundings like he usually would.

 

“You go to sleep then. I won’t let anything bad happen to you. Promise.” He adjusts his hold on Peter’s hand — it’s still feeling slightly feverish. He knows how fevers can warp the mind. Tony doesn’t want Peter to feel alone if he succumbs to delirium.

 

Peter’s asleep within seconds. Tony can tell by the way his head lolls slightly to the side, mouth parted in a quiet snore. He smiles fondly. Following suit, Tony rests his head down on an unoccupied section of the hospital bed — after all, he should sleep. Gotta set an example and all that.

 

So he dozes. Years of being an Avenger mean he’s never quite fully asleep, and contrary to popular belief, can adhere to a schedule and wake up on time.

 

So when the door to the hospital room opens, he blinks awake to face the intruder.

 

Or not.

 

Helen steps forward, and Tony’s mind sharpens.

“Sorry to disturb you. Just wanted to…” She holds up a vial of some clear liquid with a quirk of her lips. Tony tilts his head in a silent question.

“Tranexamic acid. A coagulant used to treat massive blood loss in the case of an injury, or, in Peter’s case…”

 

He watches her inject the clear solution into the crook of Peter’s arm with a slight sense of nausea over him. It’s kind of funny, in a morbid sense, how he’s more squicked out by watching the needle break skin than he was seeing the red-blackish discharge earlier.

“The poison. It was just an anticoagulant like I thought, Tony. This should help thicken his blood out again. Get some rest, he’ll be fine.”

 

He looks at Peter’s face. It’s still pale, and the bags are more pronounced than he would like, but- he’s sleeping peacefully. The poison got treated, and the kid’s gonna be fine.

“Thanks.” Tony whispers, and she gives a small, sarcastic smile.

“Not like that’s my job or anything.”

 

He snorts.

 

Helen leaves shortly afterwards, and Tony lets his head fall back down on the plush mattress.

“Sleep tight, kid.”

 

_And..._

  
“You’re grounded. Make me worry like _that_ again…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> every yeet has an equal and opposite yoink my dudes
> 
> (pls don't come for me i'm not a doctor)


	6. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People make mistakes. That's just a fact. It happens. Tony knows that better than anyone.
> 
> So he can't figure out why this one bothers him so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cryptic summary because i can't think of anything better
> 
> aka tony finds out some more about homecoming after a fall out with peter

“What was _that?”_

 

Peter looks up at him from the rooftop he’s sat on. His breaths look and sound heavy, like he’s been exerted too hard, even from the distance he’s hovering at, and he’s pale but not looking much worse for wear. Tony stares at the kid, gaze unflinching. Yeah, he’s pissed.

 

Dust is still rising in plumes from the crumbling and ruined husk of a building; close to falling to the floor outright, and he’s staring at one of the causes of the damage.

 

He would have thought that the kid had learned something from the ferry incident — don’t start fights in populated areas, and don’t start super villain fights inside _buildings._  It’s a goddamn repeat of history. Peter could have killed people with that stunt.

 

“Mr. Stark?” He’s confused. Like he can’t see the similarities to what happened on the ferry and right now.

“What the hell was that? ‘Cause it looks to me like you just dropped a building full of innocent civilians to the floor.” He spits the word ‘innocent’ like it’s venom, and guessing from the kid’s flinch, it hits home. Tony almost feels guilty, but the kid needs to goddamn learn. Someone could have died- hell, for all he knows, people _might_ be dead. Peter stands up abruptly and whirls around to face him.

“Mr. Stark, the guy was threatening to kill everyone! I had to buy everyone some time to get out-”

“By engaging in a fight with a super villain in a populated area?”

“Yes! I can take these fights, they can’t-”

“Well clearly you can’t take these kinds of fights, because that building is about to topple over and the other guy got away!”

 

His frustration rises as Peter averts his eyes and turns his gaze downwards to the floor. It’s like the kid isn’t even _listening_ to him.

 

He misses the look of hurt and betrayal on Peter’s face as he keeps going on his tangent, but he does see the kid’s posture slump as he deflates, suddenly silent. Tony’s grateful for the quiet on Peter’s behalf — to the point where he hardly recognises it for what it is. He’s stopped trying to defend himself.

 

“You could have killed people by doing that. People could be _dead.”_ Peter flinches as if struck, and Tony’s anger drains away as fast as his guilt rushes in.

“I’m sorry.” Peter whispers, staring down at his hands. The kid looks almost horrified at himself. Tony blinks; opens his mouth and closes it again, dumbstruck by his own cruelty. It wasn’t fair of him to lash out like that, nor is it fair that he just used the kid’s fear of casualties against him. He exhales in an attempt to relieve the weight off his chest.

 

It doesn’t work.

“Peter, wait-”

“I’m sorry.” Then the kid stands and bolts, faster than he can raise his voice to apologise, and vaults off the roof.

 

It’s a mirror image of the ferry incident. Literally a perfect reflection. Peter does something dumb, Tony responds by turning harsh. It’s the same as last time.

 

He also remembers how Peter did something remarkably stupid after the ferry, and he’s still bearing the brunt of that trauma now.

 

Shit.

 

“FRIDAY, bring up Karen please. I have to apologise.”

 _‘Karen is offline. Mr. Parker’s phone is off.’_ Even FRIDAY’s voice is somewhat cold towards him. Yeah, he fucked up. He went _way_ too far. The kid was exhausted after fighting some asshole, and Tony came along to grill him about his choice without even finding out what happened.

 

Now Karen is offline, and Peter’s phone is too. He’s got no way to contact the kid.

 

It stings. Sure, he could still track the suit with the reinstalled tracker, but it _stings_ that Peter shut him out like that.

 

Oh, who is he kidding. He deserves it. For what he just did, probably destroying Peter’s trust in him again… he doesn’t deserve the kid’s forgiveness.

 

“FRI, make sure he gets home safely. I’ve fucked this up enough.” Tony sighs when he sees the indents in the roof’s gravel — Peter had really been desperate to get away from him. His heart twinges.

 _‘I will, Boss. I’ll send you a notification when Karen goes back online.’_ The faceplate of the armour snaps down, and he takes off in the direction of the compound.

“Thanks, FRIDAY. I don’t deserve you.”

 _‘You deserve more than you have gotten from people in the past who would blame you for anything. This was an accident._ ’ Tony blinks, surprised. Compassion is kind of new, especially from FRIDAY — an AI he  _designed_ to be snarky and sharp-witted.

“Thanks FRIDAY, but… I screwed this up. Again.”

 _‘I never said that you didn’t. I am merely having faith in yours and Mr. Parker’s abilities to reconnect after fights.’_ Ah, there’s the snark. It’s not as comforting as it usually is. So he focuses on flying instead.

 

It’s surreal, flying. It’s been like that ever since his first flight in the suit, and even ten years later the novelty hasn’t worn off yet. It’s nowhere near the same as flying in a jet. He can see the world passing beneath him, but he can't _feel_ it. It’s probably the detachment that fascinates him — he’s always immersed in _one_ project or another, and to be distinctly separate from the rest of the world is refreshing. He can see when he banks to the left or to the right, but he feels like he’s staying still, even as the world lilts to the side. Tony always finds it funny how the shadows of clouds on the ground from high up is so much weirder than when you’re just walking on, because they're huge and in high definition, clear and sharp against the sunlight. And the world looks so, so small. Like everything he’s known in his day to day life is small and inconsequential, and it's amazing that any human can even live down there, where everything is so tiny. The horizon stretches on into forever, fading into a white colour while the buildings and human constructions that litter the land (the ones that are so menacing from the ground) like the intricate details of a floor plan. Like it’s little more than a small detail in an otherwise massive world. Water looks beautiful, rippling with the sunlight. Tony hums quietly as he mentally compares the appearance of roads and streets to the interconnected networks of veins and arteries every human has within them.

  
He sighs, dejected. While the beauty of flight is still utterly captivating, he shouldn’t use it as a distraction from his complete assholery earlier. He should _not_ have lashed out like that earlier on. He just hopes Peter doesn’t do anything stupid, like last time.

He doesn’t want the kid to get even _more_ traumatised because of his own insensitivity. It’s taken long enough to try and get the kid to open up about what happened on homecoming night (he _still_ doesn’t know the whole story, and it’s been months).

 

He slams to the ground on the landing pad of the compound with his normal dramatic flair, and straightens his posture out slowly. He’s getting too old to be so dramatic. Tony huffs — Rhodey and Happy would have a field day with that information.

“FRIDAY? Take it away.” There’s a series of quiet hisses as the armour releases, and whirring as joints come apart, and individually the pieces of the suit fall apart and shoot off in the direction of the labs. After the whole Mandarin-Extremis debacle, he put in the time to perfect the technology to maybe stop his from getting bruises the size of Texas all across his body (the Mark 42 was a goddamn nightmare).

 

And it looks cool.

 

Tony smooths out a crease in his shirt — he doesn’t know why he bothers fixing that shirt, it’s covered in motor oil — and walks forward through the corridors, pressing forwards to where he knows Pepper’s office is. She always know what to do after he’s done something incredibly stupid and potentially dangerous. So he knocks on her door, waits for an invitation to enter, and then-

“I- I fucked up, Pep. I messed everything up.” Pepper looks up sharply, and her eyes are confused. Understandably.

“What- Tony? What’s happened? How? With who?”

“The kid. A building nearly went down in one of his fights and I blew up at him for it.” Her eyes soften. Pepper walks over to him and takes his hands in her own.

“I’m sorry, I’m lost here. Could you…? A little more detail?”

“I was in the labs, FRIDAY gave me a heads up, I got to the scene and Peter had fought with some super-dick, and collapsed half a building for it. I got angry and didn’t listen to him, he ran off, and now I’m here. And before you tell me, I’m a dick, I _know_. I shouldn’t have blown up at him.” A soft hand comes up and touches his cheek, and he leans into the contact. It’s reassuring in a way he didn’t even realise he needed right now.

“Try to apologise to him, Tony.”

“He shut off Karen and his phone. In terms of communication, right now I’ve got nothing.”

“Give him some time, then. Let him be for a while. He’s probably hurt, and doesn’t want to talk to you.”

Tony swallows the information roughly, ignoring how some tiny part of his chest wants him to head over to the Parker’s apartment and hug the kid and apologise for being such a terrible-

 

_mentor._

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. I’ll give him some space.”

 

Even though last time he gave the kid some space after an incident like _this_ , he came back slightly more traumatised than he was before. It feels wrong because he knows that Peter is hurt, but he resigns himself to it — for _now_ . He’ll apologise every day for the next _forever_ if he has to.

“That’s all you can do for now, Tony. If he doesn’t want to speak to you, you can’t make him. You can just let him know that you’re there for him and willing to genuinely apologise when he’s ready.”

“You’re so amazing, Pep. Don’t know what I’d do without you.” He closes his eyes and feels the slight increase of pressure on his lips when Pepper presses a kiss to them. When she wraps her arms around him, he responds in kind, and-

“Blow up your company?” The sarcastic question is so out of place in the otherwise warm atmosphere of the room that he nearly snorts out loud. Instead, he gives an indignant huff (it’s in good humour).

“Yeah.”

 

The rest of the day passes in a similar fashion. Pepper takes a break from work — he’ll never admit just how much it means to him that she did that, because he’s pretty sure the human contact is good for him and it’s stopping him from doing something stupid — and stays with him. About two hours after the initial incident, FRIDAY tells him that Peter has (finally) returned home, but he hasn’t booted Karen’s communicative abilities back up. He sends a few texts to the kid, just to let him know that he’s sorry-

 

He gets no response.

 

And when Tony goes to bed at the end of the night, he remembers in perfect detail the hurt and betrayed look in Peter’s eyes when he yelled. He remembers how every part of his chest twisted (not in anger, not anger. Concern. It was deep concern, because he didn’t miss how the kid was trembling) afterwards, because he just _hurt his kid_.

 

His mind doesn’t go easy on him.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes up the next morning, there’s a note on the pillow next to him in the place of Pepper’s hair (she must have started work early), and he’s more tired than he was before.

 

It’s kind of hard to sleep peacefully when he’s got the weight of his mistakes on his mind.

 

He yawns, stretches, gets out of bed and gets dressed. He’s got to do things today, even if his head is so far out of the game it might be in a different stadium completely. But having responsibilities won’t stop him from heading down to the labs after he eats something for breakfast — after all, his job in SI is basically just to churn out new ideas into the production line. Brainstorming and building is his literal job, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

Pepper would say that a smoothie isn’t quite a breakfast, but it’s one of the few things he can make without burning it or outright making it blow up. It’s not a talent he’s proud to have, but he has it anyways and he’s going to put use to the smoothie know-how. Even if that know how is the result of nearly dying from heavy palladium poisoning.

 

He slurps on the smoothie as the lift goes down to the labs. Naturally, when he walks in, the first thing he is greeted by is DUM-E with- with a motor oil smoothie. Again. Tony takes the cup and pats the bot gently on the head.

“Thanks, bud. I got one already though.” He holds up his half-drained flask and gives a half-smile when DUM-E chirps happily at him. He’s pretty sure he can hear U clattering around at the back of the workshop as well. Tony relaxes a little. It’s good to be home.

“Up and at ‘em, guys. We got another hard day of brainstorming ahead of us.” Tony rests the motor oil smoothie down next to his main workbench and looks hard at all the little parts lying around the place. The one problem with staying up into the early hours is that collected thought usually turns in at midnight, and anything beyond that tends to be spur of the moment.

 

Put simply, he doesn’t know what half the gadgets are. He sweeps them to one side — he’ll remember what they’re for later. But he’s got a priority before he does anything, and that is-

“FRIDAY, can you check up on Karen?”

 _‘Karen’s communication protocols are online and functional again. It appears that Mr. Parker hasn’t read your messages yet.’_ Tony makes a face, but doesn’t bring up how the rejection stings. It’s nothing on how he treated the kid yesterday.

“Okay. Well, that’s about as much as I deserve. How about patrol and all that? He’s not hurt?”

 _‘Last reading of vitals were stable. Records show that Mr. Parker woke up abruptly at midnight and engaged in a patrol for the following three hours. He appears to be home now.’_ Tony grimaces. That’s less sleep than anyone should be getting. Maybe Peter just wanted to be alone though — Tony can’t blame him for that. He wouldn’t want to be near anyone if his feelings had been hurt like that.

“Did he get _any_ sleep?”

 _‘About four and a half hours.’_ Shit, shit. That’s…

 

If that’s the effect Tony’s yelling had on the kid, he’ll never forgive himself. His whole thing was meant to be _protecting_ the kid from seeing the darkness the world has to offer and turning as depressed as Tony did. Apparently he’s failing, and by his own hand.

 

Yeah, he’s gonna have to go out and check up on the kid, because if he starts following the same self-destructive path Tony did whenever he got hurt, he’s gonna get himself killed on patrol. Tony stands, and jerks in surprise when DUM-E knocks the smoothie cup down onto the floor with a clatter.

“DUM-E. _C’mon.”_ It’s just a good thing he learned after the first fifteen hundred times DUM-E has knocked something over to just leave a ‘ _caution: wet floor’_ sign right next to his goddamn workbench. He groans fondly and pats the bot again.

“How’s my schedule looking today, FRI?”

_‘Ms. Potts will require your presence in approximately an hour and a half to deliver a meeting to the board of directors regarding upgrades to the Stark phone and various other products.’_

 

Of _course_. He vaguely remembers making a memo a while back about having an upcoming board meeting, but it’s slipped his mind until now. Some kind of world-renowned genius he is.

“Right, okay. I’m gonna go up and do that-”

 _‘In your_ ‘work uniform’ _?’_ Tony looks down at the beaten AC/DC shirt and trousers he’s wearing, then looks back up at the ceiling.

“Yes.” He says it like it’s obvious.

 _‘If you have to, boss.’_ FRIDAY sounds so resigned that Tony actually barks out a laugh.

“I _do_ have to. Keep an eye on your brothers while I’m gone, okay? And I’m looking at DUM-E in specific here.” He hears a whirring noise in response and gives the bot another absent pat. For a robot, he’s _really_ needy.

_‘I’ll stop them from blowing the place up.’_

“That’s all I ask of you, FRI.”

_‘Enjoy your meeting.’_

Tony groans. “I won’t.”

 

* * *

 

By the time the meeting draws to a close (several hours later than it should have), the thought of heading to Queens to check up on Peter is a distant memory.

 

* * *

 

 

It turns out to be a similar story the next day when he checks up on Peter through Karen — the kid turns in late from patrol, gets a few hours worth of sleep, then wakes up abruptly and heads back out again. He briefly wonders if May knows about their fight (probably), and wonders why she isn’t trying to stop Peter from patrolling before he realises that the kid wakes up so late in the night that she is almost undoubtedly asleep, and Peter’s been sneaking out again.

 

He’s beginning to wonder why the kid is trying to shoulder this alone before he remembers the betrayal in his eyes when Tony snapped.

 

Trust is alarmingly easy to lose.

 

He regrets it.

 

* * *

 

 

The worst part is is that the habit doesn’t abate or become less severe over time — it actually looks like it’s getting worse. Karen’s nightly reports show a steady decrease in the amount of time Peter is spending asleep before his secondary patrol, and Tony is beginning to realise that if he wants to help out, he can’t remain passive about it from a distance. He’s gonna have to step in during the patrol to talk to the kid before he runs himself into the ground or gets himself killed. Whichever one happens first at this rate, because the kid’s waking up at about midnight almost every day and is out patrolling again hardly five minutes later and no kid should _ever_ be so traumatised that this happens.

 

Tony recognises it as a symptom he had when his anxiety and PTSD were at their worst, and the parallel makes him want to scream. _Wake up, ignore the trauma staring him dead in the face, do something,_ anything _to keep his mind off it._ He still doesn’t know what triggered this behaviour — it feels way too out of character and drastic to be caused just by Tony yelling at him. There’s something deeper.

 

He isn’t quite sure he wants to find out what it is.

 

But he can’t leave it any longer.

“FRIDAY, do I have any plans today? Meetings?”

_‘No. Your schedule has been cleared. Ms. Potts says you should check up on Mr. Parker.’_

“Pep cleared my schedule?”

_‘Yes. The meetings are, in her words, ‘of less importance than your kid’s mental health’.’_

“Yeah, well she’s got a point.” Tony stands; paces around the room. He won’t go in broad daylight in case Peter is sleeping, but he knows the kid’ll be out patrolling later on in the night.

_‘You have a plan?’_

“I do, but I’m gonna need your help.”

_‘I’m at your service, boss.’_

“I need to to get the patrol data from Karen. Find patterns, routines in the kid’s patrol. Where he’s most likely to visit and when. I’ve got to stop him before he gets himself killed.”

 _‘I’ll analyse that as soon as it’s_ all _copied over.’_ Tony winces at the particular emphasis on the word ‘all’. He knows the kid patrols a lot, but to see even his AIs sounding reluctant about the workload they’re facing… That’s a helluva lot of data, and even more patrol time that Peter is doing to escape _something_.

 

This is his fault.

 

“Yeah. I’ll give you some time to do that. Keep me posted.” FRIDAY doesn’t respond, so Tony assumes she’s already working on data collection. In the meantime, Tony recalibrates a few of the suit’s joints — a few too many knocks to the mechanics meant they had started digging into his arms — until they fit comfortably on his arm again. He flexes his fingers and charges the repulsor up before letting the energy dissipate again. It was just to make sure the gauntlet is still functioning.

 _‘Data has been analysed. Forwarding the predicted route to the HUD of the Mark…?’_ He thinks about it. He’s got a _lot_ of suits, not as many as he did before, but he saved the blueprints of every single Iron Man suit he’s ever made. The suits’ names are after their blueprint mark, not the number of physical suits in existence. But he’s gone off from his original thought track.

“Send it to the Mark 49.” He looks outside — when did it get so _dark?_ Peter’s gonna be heading out for his secondary patrol soon. It sucks to know that Peter’s head is so out of the game that he almost definitely is going to wake up from what he can only assume is a nightmare, and-

 

Tony sighs. The kid is just as traumatised as he is, and he’s facing it alone. Tony just hopes Peter will let him help.

 

 _‘Information has been forwarded.’_ FRIDAY says, and Tony nods to himself. He should probably leave soon.

“How long was I working on the 32?”

_‘Approximately two and a half hours. You woke up late this afternoon.’_

“I really lost track of the time, huh…” DUM-E comes over with a wrench in its grasp. Fondly, Tony grabs the tool and rests it down on the workbench. He stands.

“Bring up the 49. I’m heading out.” He walks over to the empty space towards the exit of the labs, where the emergency escape / suit exit is, and lets the armour piece itself around him securely before taking off for Queens.

 

Turns out, flying is always more stunning when the sun is setting. The orange reflects along the water, and Tony can’t help but see Pepper’s hair in his mind’s eye. He loves it when the orange light reflects off her hair in the same way.

 

Tony shakes his head and ups his speed towards Queens. Familiar buildings and the now business-only silhouette of Stark Tower gleams in the distance. He picks a rooftop to settle on — gently. He remembers that one time with the Mark I where he fell through several layers of reinforced concrete, and refuses to repeat the incident — and waits.

 

He can understand the attraction to Queens. It’s small. Humble. Nowhere near as loud as central New York or Brooklyn, and quaint looking from where he is. It’s not anything to do with the reduced crime rates since Peter started doing his Spider-Thing or his pride from that statistic.

 

 _Thwip_.

 

 _Thwip thwip_.

 

The distant sound catches Tony’s attention quickly. He snaps his head around to the direction of the noise, and-

 

Far in the distance (from around where the kid’s apartment is), he can see the tiny red dot that is Peter swinging from building to building. But the closer he looks - “FRIDAY, magnify.” -, the more he realises…

 

His swinging is _off_. Like, _really_ off. There’s no energy or effort, just- it’s just a method of travelling right now, not the activity his kid usually delights in. And that’s the first clue to just how bad Peter’s doing. There’s no grace. Tony has half a mind to take off right now, but only keeps himself in place until he’s certain the kid…

 

He doesn’t know why he’s waiting.

 

Probably because he’s scared of how Peter will respond to him being there. The last time they even spoke was when the kid was already down and Tony kicked the sore spot harder.

 

The choice to wait is ripped from him when the dot that is Peter seemingly misses a web shot completely, suddenly falling from his arc and towards the ground. Tony, put simply, shits himself. The armour’s faceplate snaps down on him and he shoots off in the kid’s direction. He should have stepped in long before it got this bad; if Peter’s seriously hurt that’s on _him-_

 

“Kid! Kid, are you alright?!” Instead of dropping down in the suit, Tony steps out of it completely and hops down to the gravel, knees aching in protest. Peter hardly stirs beneath him, and Tony’s heart picks up drastically.

“Peter! Pete, c’mon buddy, please wake up. _Shit.”_ He fumbles at the mask before he pulls it off Peter’s face, revealing-

 

Oh, _jesus._

 

The bags under Peter’s eyes are so dark they could be classified as black easily. It’s one thing to see the cold, hard data on the kid’s sleep deprivation, but to be staring a physical manifestation of his suffering in the face (literally) like this… Tony swallows thickly. On top of the bags, Peter is unnaturally pale, and his face has a bruise on it’s that’s already a blackish colour — Tony realises that this isn’t Peter’s healing factor being abnormally fast, it’s exactly the opposite. He’s so drained he’s not healing anymore. Even when he’s exhausted to the point of near-oblivion, Peter is frowning.

“ _Shit, fuck damn-_ I don’t know if you’re awake, Underoos, but I’m getting you to the compound. I am so, so sorry. For blowing up at you, for being an ass, I’m just- _please_ be okay.” He’s pretty sure FRIDAY is carrying the same sense of urgency he is, because when the armour envelops him again it’s a whole lot faster, and the flight route has already been calculated for maximum efficiency.

“FRIDAY, send a message to May Parker. Tell her I’m taking Peter up to the compound, he had a bump on patrol and I’m just keeping him in observation for the night. And have Karen activate the heaters in Peter’s suit.” Tony can feel the kid shivering — it can hardly even be called that, it’s more like the occasional jerk of a limb — and it breaks his heart. He’s still out cold. Tony can only try to fathom how much Peter would have needed this sleep by now.

 

He doesn’t care for the dramatic flair when he lands this time. The only thing on his mind is keeping Peter safe, and that’s why he doesn’t use the main ‘landing pad’ at the compound but the one in his lab. Exiting the suit is something of a relief-

 

Relief which quickly dies when he takes Peter from the outstretched arms of the suit. The kid weighs _nothing_.

“I got you, kid. You’re safe. May knows you’re here.” He doesn’t know why he’s still talking, when it’s obvious Peter is very unconscious right now.

“Right. DUM-E, U, get me blankets. Wherever I’ve hidden them around here, I need them now.” It’s alarmingly easy for him to shift Peter onto one of the many plush couches in the workshop. Tony could almost laugh at the sight of DUM-E and U piling blankets on the kid if it weren’t so goddamn sad. Absently, Tony grabs the edges of the fabric and pulls it so it covers the length of Peter’s body, from his shoulders to his feet. He’s caused this kid enough suffering, it’s time he did something to actually help.

“I am so, so sorry for blowing up at you like that. I shouldn’t have, and you didn’t deserve that on your shoulders. I was just-” Tony blinks; sucks in a sharp breath. That’s why his anger bubbled up so suddenly. “I didn’t want to lose you. Helluva a way of showing I care, right? I head over freaking out because you might get hurt, and instead of being concerned about you, I lash out.” _Just like Howard_. He flinches at his own mental comparison.

 

Peter doesn’t respond in any major way as he speaks. He thinks he might see a slight twitch of fingers; a pinching in the kid’s facial expression before it smooths out again, but it’s always gone before he can analyse it further. Tony leans backwards in his chair and stares up at the ceiling.

“Fuck you, Howard. Your coping mechanisms were shit.” _And I hate that I’ve picked them up._

 

Tony takes his attention from Peter — he’s so small, he looks so exhausted and tiny and Tony wants to protect the kid from the rest of the world and himself if necessary — and onto DUM-E, U and FRIDAY instead.

“So, how were they while I was gone?” Tony keeps his tone equanimous as he speaks, not betraying the deep panic settling in his chest. Maybe some normalcy will help out.

 _‘No explosions or irreversible property damage was caused. DUM-E did knock over your empty smoothie cup._ ’ He hears a sad series of beeps in response to FRIDAY’s voice, and he rushes to placate the bot.

“It’s okay, boy. You didn’t mean it.”

 _‘U tried to clean it up.’_ Tony looks down to the floor next to his central workbench, and true to FRI’s words there is a cloth lying on the floor. He smiles at the pseudo-family dynamic the bots have — FRIDAY is the exasperated oldest sister, U is the middle child and DUM-E is the baby sibling. It doesn’t matter that the ages and sibling status are in contrast to each other, what matters is that it’s goddamn _enlightening_ to see all his kids interact.

_‘Boss-’_

 

He hears a tiny noise; a cross between a shaky breath and a whimper.

 

He knows almost instantly what to expect when he whirls around to face Peter.

 

The kid’s curled up into a tighter ball, and his expression is one of terror. Tony’s heart falls into his stomach.

“Peter? Peter, you’re okay. You’re safe, Underoos.” It doesn’t have any visible effect on the terrified boy. Tony doesn’t know what to do.

_‘Most sites say to not try and rouse your child from a night terror. Crossed with the symptoms of PTSD, I would not recommend waking Mr. Parker up. He most likely will not recognise his surroundings.’_

Tony swallows a mouthful of saliva that tastes an awful lot like bile. His kid is so _scared…_

 

It takes about five minutes for Peter to bolt upright with a cry, chest heaving with his exertion. Tony wants to cry (the kid looks so fucking _scared)._

“Peter! You’re safe, buddy! I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’ve got you.” He readily returns the inevitable (and incredibly desperate) embrace Peter gives him, running his hands through the kid’s hair and everything. He can feel Peter trembling like a leaf in the wind, and there are growing damp patches on his shirt from the kid’s tears.

“You’re alright. I’ve got you. I’ll keep you safe, I promise. Just hang on, Pete.” Tony closes his eyes and tucks the kid’s head under his chin. Peter seems okay with it — he doesn’t break every one of Tony’s ribs like he knows he can, he just… readjusts his grip and stays put.

 

“I got you.”

 

* * *

 

Tony stays like that, with Peter huddled in his grip, for what has to be at least half an hour. Full-scale convulsive trembles have diminished to slight shivers, and he hears the occasional hiccupping breath from the kid. Tony lifts his head from where it was resting on top of Peter’s own, and-

“You with me?”

“I’m sorry.” Tony tightens his hug a little at the whisper, and smooths down the kid’s curls in a way that he hopes comes across as reassuring.

“Nonono, Peter, _I’m_ sorry. I should _not_ have blown up at you like that. You were completely innocent and you were just trying to buy everyone time to get out while you distracted the jackass — I get that now. I’m sorry for hurting you like I did. You don’t need to forgive me; I’d understand if you couldn’t.”

“What…? Mr. Stark, I- I forgave you, like, after it happened.” Tony looks up sharply. He feels Peter shift a little, and nearly hums out loud for the fact that he doesn’t try and pull away to distance himself.

“Why would you do _that?_ You’re doing your thing and I come along to Howard Stark at you, and you’re just _fine_ with that?”

“Mhm. You had that look you have on your face when I get hurt or you’re scared. It stung for a little, but…” Peter sniffles, and while part of Tony is relieved that he isn’t the cause of the persistent trauma, the bigger part of him is nervous. Something worse happened?

“You wanna talk about it?”

 

No response. Instead of pushing it like he wants to, Tony just shuffles his leg out from beneath him — it had started to go numb from his weight on top of it — and stays where he is. There’s no better way to convey the message of _‘I’m here for you’_ than not leaving, right?

“I remembered the fight with Toomes. It was scary, and I just-” Peter trails off with a shrug, but Tony can see immediately through the feeble facade of calm around the kid. The kid flashed back, then.

“That’s fine. We’re all allowed to be scared. You can talk to me if you want, you know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know, it’s just…” Peter’s voice becomes muffled as he turns further into Tony’s shirt. He huffs fondly.

“That’s fine too.”

 

It goes quiet, but not in a particularly bad way. It’s like being able to breathe for the first time in a while.

 

“It’s just…” Peter starts, then stops abruptly. Tony stays silent, just deciding to wait.

“It’s just that- when the building came down, I sorta- wasn’t _there_ anymore, and it was homecoming and Toomes all over again and- I guess I froze for a bit. Freaked out. Kinda threw me off my rhythm for a while, and I keep getting nightmares about it. Yeah.”

“What does the building going down have to do with homecoming?” Tony asks curiously. He’s still pretty sure he’s missing a big chunk of what happened that night — this is his chance to find out, right?

“Ah, um… well,  he- uh- Toomes- he sorta… dropped a… building on me?”

 

Tony’s eye twitches.

“He _what?”_ As if realising his mistake, Peter sits upright (Tony already misses the warmth) and stares him dead in the face. He can’t not focus on the black bags under his eyes. Peter’s (shaky) hands come up in a sign of surrender.

“I take that back. Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

“Toomes dropped a goddamn _building_ on you?”

“W-well, it was less of a _building_ and more of a _warehouse_ , but- _oof-!_ ”

 

Peter doesn’t get to finish his sentence as Tony pulls the kid into a tight hug, eyes wide. The kid had a building dropped on him. Suddenly, the recurring nightmares and persistent trauma make a lot more sense. He was right, though — he really _didn’t_ want to know what happened on homecoming night. Now he’s not gonna be able to _unimagine_ the thought of Peter, trapped under tons of rubble, alone and in a onesie instead of any functional armour.

“I’m bubble-wrapping you. If anyone tries to hurt you again, they’re going through _me_ first.”

“Uh, thanks, Mr. Stark, but that’s- that’s not necessary.”

“It damn well is. But you-? You’re getting some sleep.”

 

Peter pales, and suddenly the bags are making so much more sense. Who would want to go to sleep when all you get from it is a reminder of a concrete tomb?

“I’ll stay here, Underoos.” Albeit reluctantly, Peter leans back in against his chest.

“I’ll keep you safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love one (1) father son bond


	7. Kidnapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it can take a shove to get Tony to admit how he feels. 
> 
> Or, y'know, his kid getting stolen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof
> 
> [Just saying, there's a point in this chapter where the bad guys intend on selling Peter, and one of them has less than pure intentions. Nothing happens, but just to be safe.]

Early in the day, Tony gets a cryptic message on his phone. It’s an address, with no further information. He frowns, but doesn’t delete it. Maybe it’s a number he knows? If it is, they’ll follow it up with another message.

 

Nothing more arrives.

 

* * *

 

He places the Iron Man gauntlet down on the workbench, and allows the other to form around his forearm. It pinches a little bit. Tony wedges a screwdriver between two of the overlapping plates — some blunt impact must have really knocked them together — until the two slide apart again, and watches intently as the locks recalibrate. It’s a tight fit again, and Tony hums contentedly. The lab is quiet, though (asides from the distant clattering of DUM-E and U), and Tony realises something.

“Isn’t Peter kinda late today?” He puts the gauntlet down, and looks up at the ceiling.

 _‘By a half hour. Traffic appears to be congested in Queens.’_ He hums again. Yeah, traffic in NY is nearly always bad, and the Parkers are managing their way up to the compound this morning.

“Okay.” He says with a small shrug, and turns back to his work. The kid’s got it managed, there’s nothing to worry about.

 

Maybe he was wrong to think that.

 

* * *

 

It’s only when the lab is still absent of any Spider-kid two hours later that he starts to worry. The traffic can’t be _that_ bad, can it? What if something’s happened? If there was an accident or something? Because Tony _knows_ that Peter would get involved in something like that, and he knows that the kid could get hurt helping.

 

He also knows that, while it’s slowly getting better, Peter’s PTSD is still keeping the kid up more often than not. He’s still tired a lot of the time, and that’s dangerous.

“FRIDAY, call May Parker.” Tony puts the socket wrench in his hand down on the table.

 _‘Dialling now.’_ He hopes the kid’s okay. He trusts the kid’s ability to not die, but that’s not gonna stop him from being worried. He looks up when the line clicks.

“Hello?”

“Ah, Mrs. Parker. Gonna cut to the chase here — you got Pete?” He can almost _hear_ May frowning over the phone.

“I swear you’re gonna _adopt_ him- and no, I don’t. He said he was going up via web. Hasn’t he gotten there yet?”

_‘Mr. Parker has not approached or entered the compound’s premises yet.’_

“No, he’s not.” He ignores how his heartbeat picks up, slightly more than he’s comfortable with. So the kid is AWOL and he’s still stressed out. That’s not good. Tony has faith in Peter’s abilities ( _god_ , he hasn’t forgotten just how much the kid is capable of), but it doesn’t soothe his anxiety. Something just feels _off_ about it.

He hears a fond sigh over the phone, then:

“Probably got distracted on patrol. Give him some time.”

 

Yeah, May’s probably right. God knows the kid has a heart of gold, he’s probably out there helping people out. Tony smiles. That’s just how his kid works, and he’s so goddamn proud.

 

So he waits a little longer.

 

His questioning thoughts are answered in the form of another message from the cryptic phone number.

  


_I have him_.

 

It’s coupled with a blurred image of Peter (as Spider-Man, the mask is still on, that’s good), clearly unconscious, and he’s roped to a chair.

 

Tony gulps, heart suddenly in his stomach.

 

And suddenly, the address makes a lot more sense.

 

He’s aware of his hands shaking as he looks at the photo (oh god, what if he’s hurt, what if they’re going to hurt Peter?), but doesn’t so much as attempt to bring himself back under control. He’s been through shit like this enough time to know how this is gonna go.

 

He waits until his panic dies down, and steely determination sets in its place. His mind is the kind of calm usually associated with the onset of a storm-

 

Good.

 

Because, to quote Peter’s vines:

 

_They’ve got a big storm comin’._

“FRIDAY, locate the IP server the messages are coming from. Quickly as you can, please.”

 _‘Triangulating signal now…’_ Tony stands up; smooths down the wrinkles on his clothes. The arc reactor sits upon his chest, and he can’t help but run his fingers across the lines of it.

“And get ready to run live scans on the prototype Mark 50 suit.”

_‘Tests and upgrades have not been performed on the 50 yet, boss.’_

“I know. Let’s call it field experience.”

 

This isn’t how he wanted the first test of the suit to go. Preferably, he would have liked to have shown Peter the nanotech to harness the kid’s genius brain for improvements, but… desperate times and all that.

 

He double taps on the surface of the arc reactor, and almost immediately the nanobots flow and spread out across his chest. It’s cold, but the sensation is curious and mostly exciting (even despite the situation).

 _‘Output levels are holding steady. I would recommend we run more tests, but given Mr. Parker’s… precarious… situation, we’re going to skip over that. Forwarding location.’_ He almost smiles at the grim determination in FRIDAY’s voice. It’s like _she’s_ about to adopt Peter as well.

“And you be integrated to the suit?”

 _‘I’m not going to stay here, am I?’_ Tony blinks a little as the nanobots travel over his face, and keeps his breaths even when the metal turns his sight dark-

 

And then the world lights back up, tinged in blue. Interface options appear in front of his eyes, and the thick blue line he need to follow forms before his eyes.

_‘Let's go save your kid.’_

 

Strange — he couldn’t agree more.

  


* * *

 

 

The facility (it’s a storage facility; Peter doesn’t deserve to be stuck up here like some kind of _animal_ ) is an imposing sight against the surrounding wilderness, trees and thin roads stretching as far as Tony can see. They’re quite the way away from New York. Tony shudders at the thought — how long had Peter been stuck, being driven far away from home?

 

He sees the silhouette of a van next to the building and his jaw clenches. They seriously chucked the kid in there like some- some claim to a prize?

 

Tony hasn’t checked if any demands have come from the unknown number, and he doesn’t care. He came to kick ass and save his kid. That’s what he came to do, that’s what he’s going to do.

 

Walking in the new suit feels a lot more fluid. It’s definitely due to the less rigid composition of the nanobots, but his footsteps echo a lot less and it’s something to be thankful for.

 

It doesn’t stop the repulsor blast from tearing the front door straight off its hinges and making a very loud, very obvious screeching sound. He hears yells coming from inside the building, but doesn't relent.

 

He steps past the threshold of the door.

“FRIDAY, trace their heat signatures. I’m not leaving until I get my kid back.” The image of the warehouse flips to thermal camera imaging. He squints. The thick concrete walls aren’t much help, but he can still see red dots in the distance. He picks where there’s the most of them.

 

Those bastards are going to pay for taking Peter.

 

He doesn’t keep himself silent like he could as he approaches. Each footstep rings out loudly; menacingly-

 

Good.

 

He’s on a warpath, and they have every right to fear him. The repulsors for both gauntlets have charged up before he even enters the room, and when he does.

“Holy _shit_ , you didn’t tell me we were fucking with _Iron Man_!”

 

He smirks under the helmet.

“How about you show me where our friendly neighbourhood wall-crawler is, and I won’t end you here?” The guys drop their weapons — just knives and rifles. Tony frowns.

“I- I don’t know, man. The bosses wanted him.”

 

Tony lowers the live gauntlets, but doesn’t power them down. No use killing relatively innocent men.

 

(Instead, when he exits the room, he melts the doorknob in his palm. They’ll be able to get back out after Tony has left.)

 

Tony decides to work from backwards logic. Heat signatures that are obvious are probably decoys (again). So Tony stalks towards the one area that is completely cool on the thermal camera — verging on cold. He just _hopes_ this isn’t where Peter is, god knows how the kid can’t keep warm.

 

He blasts the door down.

 

Bullets instantly come from within. Tony doesn’t even bother to lift a hand to defend himself, because his suit is already doing the best possible job at it — _‘Armour is holding strong, nanobot losses minimal.’_ — and it definitely helps convey how willing Tony is to kick their asses for his kid. The guy looks more and more desperate as the Iron Man storms closer, and almost tries to run before Tony is looming over him.

“So. How about _you_ give me the deets? _Where are you keeping him_?”

 

The guy chuckles quietly.

“I’ll never tell.”

“Suit yourself.” Tony snatches the gun from the guy’s hand, and watches as the barrel turns red hot and melts quickly under the heat of the charged up repulsor blast. He holds the still red-hot gauntlet up the the guy’s face, inching forwards every few seconds, until-

“Down the hall! Fuckin’ Christ. Psycho.”

 

Tony snorts at the irony, but heads down the opposite hall.

 

(But not before locking that guy in as well.)

 

This time, the walk feels different. Tony’s chest feels heavy as he travels, and the tension grows unbearably quickly. He knows he’s not gonna like what he finds when he gets to the room Peter is in

 

He’s right.

 

The door at the end of the hall is different (more reinforced, bulkier looking), so he approaches more quietly, just so he doesn’t have to waste more time interrogating people.

 

How these assholes don’t know he’s there yet, he doesn’t know.

 

Tony presses his ear to the heavy looking door in an attempt to try to hear words from the people inside.

 

It works a little too well.

 

“-got a cute face, don’t he? Wonder how much he’d go for.”

“He’s an enhanced. Some sick fucks _love_ these bastards.”

 

His eyes widen.

 

Those fuckers are _not_ selling his kid. There’s a billion more thoughts and what-ifs running through his head, dark things that he never wants to even _think_ of again. He just feels sick.

 

Tony takes a step back, and doesn’t hesitate to target the hinges to blow the door off the wall completely.

 

When the dust clears, he can see Peter’s face.

 

Bloodied. Bruised.

 

There are tear tracks.

 

The saving grace is that there’s no major damages to the kid or the suit.

 

 _Nothing worse happened_.

 

He could cry.

 

(It doesn’t stop him from only just _not_ frying those guys alive.)

 

Tony rushes forwards to Peter, over the unconscious bodies of the guys. He’s shivering. There’s an empty bucket nearby, a puddle on the floor around the kid’s chair, and the suit is wet. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

 

That’s how they woke the kid up, then. Probably used some pretty hard drugs on him to make him go under in the first place.

 

He feels Peter gripping on his arm, hard. In return, Tony picks the kid up like a baby and runs a hand — the armour retracts so it’s his _actual_ hand — through his hair.

“I’ve got you, buddy. I’ve got you.”

 

(“FRIDAY, alert local authorities.”)

( _‘On it, Boss.’_ )

 

* * *

 

Peter sleeps for a while when they get back. Helen assures him that it’s just a result of the sedatives those assholes used on Peter being slow to clear up, but Tony can’t help but worry.

 

So, so many things could have happened while he was safe in the labs, fretting over his own things.

 

He could have gotten there too late. Peter could well have lost something in that warehouse (Tony remembers the way that guy’s hand trailed across Peter’s cheek for _too long_ ) that he would never get back.

 

It’s a miracle he’s fine.

 

Tony tightens his grip around the kid and tucks the head of soft brown curls under his chin (he knows it makes Peter feel safer).

 

In the face of everything he could have lost…

“I love you, kid.”

“L’ve you too, dad.”

  


The admission seems less scary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;)


	8. Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aliens? In New York? It's more likely than you think.
> 
> Luckily, this time there's a bigger arsenal of heroes to fight them off. Including one Spider-themed nerd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bc peter parker def has a major fanboy crush on thor

“Rhodey, you might wanna duck now?”

 

Tony watches his friend swerve sharply to avoid the-

 

The fucking tentacle.

 

He’d thought the Chitauri were bad, but this? This is just something that crawled straight out of hell. The octo-monster is something related to one of the regions of space Asgard has no control over (according to Thor with his new _short hair_ ), and now they’re on Earth destroying New York. Again.

 

Why is it always _Earth_ the aliens always come to? From what Tony has heard, Asgard is much more technologically advanced, and Earth kind of sucks, so why are they _here_?

 

His internal monologue receives no answer (not that it ever does).

 

Tony speeds past the body of the beast and launches a few missiles into what look to be like tender flesh, only for the resultant explosions to do nothing more than darken the leathery hide.

 

For fuck’s sake.

 

It’s him, Rhodey, Thor, some (terrifying) lady called Valkyrie, Loki, Bruce (“ _Bruce_?!” | “ _Tony_.”) and Vision against three of the weird octo-demons, and strangely enough, they’re losing right now.

 

Tony swoops down to where the ragtag group is reforming, and lands heavily. He kinda feels bad for Bruce — he’s only been back for a few days now, and he’s been chucked into this straight away —, but he doesn’t regret bringing the man in. A little field experience might help him adjust to life on Earth again.

“Stark, what must we do?” Tony shakes his head slightly — Thor still needs to practice his informal Earth-speak a little more. He points at the darkened patch of monster skin.

“I see you’re still practicing Shakespeare in the park, Point Break. My plan is hit is hard.”

“Tones, really?”

“No, _really_. Find a place, hit it there over and over ‘til it breaks. FRIDAY’s run some scans, the integrity of the bastards’ skin goes down after major hits.”

 

He hears Rhodey sigh slightly, but no further complaints. Good.

 

(He isn’t quite sure what the side-glance Loki is giving him means. He would assume _respect_ , weirdly enough, if it weren’t for the fact that the trickster god had chucked him out a window in 2012.)

 

And the group launch back into battle, leaving Banner in the Quinjet. There’s a darkening in the sky before the massive lightning bolts start raining down again — he always thought Thor needed Mjölnir to summon that, apparently wrongly —, striking the beasts harshly. They recoil, but don’t fall. Tony curses before aiming a flare at one of many lightning scorched patch.

 

“ _Tony_!” He whirls his head around at Rhodey’s panicked yell (please don't be hurt, _please_ don't be hurt...).

 

There’s a massive tentacle swinging right at him. He knows he won’t be able to dodge it.

“Stark!” Thor’s yell joins Rhodey’s, and he thinks he might hear one from Bruce too, but-

 

He sees a very thin, very pale something attach to the surface of the tentacle, and then a red-blue blob slams into the massive appendage, knocking it clear out of Tony’s path and backwards. Tony looks up, surprised-

 

Peter gives him a small wave from where he’s attached to the tentacle, before springing off and landing a flip. Tony snorts. _Show-off._ He does a quick 180 and flies down to where the kid is, and where everyone else is regrouping again. Thor looks a little bit drained by now — Tony can only imagine how much energy went into that one attack.

“Nice save, kid.”

“Mr. Stark! Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner, I was- I was kinda busy.” Peter waves his arms in his usual expressive fashion as he talks. He sounds a little congested, but that might just be from the exertion of knocking an 80-foot octopus demon out of the place. Tony huffs.

“That’s fine, Underoos. Swooped in and saved me, that’s for sure.” He can almost imagine the shy blush on the kid’s face at the praise. He just wishes the mask was off so he could ruffle the kid’s curls.

“Stark? Who is-?”

“Thor, this is Spider-Man. He’s our resident baby Avenger, we’re training him.”

“I am _not_ a baby. I’m a man.”

“Not ‘til you finish puberty, kid.” The comment draws a long groan from Peter. Thor walks over, casting an appraising look over the small Spider.

 

Peter seems to notice, as he tenses up and stares the god in the face. Thor doesn’t flinch.

 

He offers a hand. Peter meets it (kind of awkwardly) with a firm shake.

“It’s nice to meet you, Man of Spiders.” He can’t see Peter’s face, but he can imagine the kid’s a little star-struck right now.

“I’m what?” Peter seems dumbfounded. Tony laughs out loud.

“Ignore him, Point Break. He’s got a fanboy crush on you, he’s daydreaming right now.”

“ _Mr. Stark_!”

“Uh, if we could focus on the giant tentacle monsters again? Yeah, that’d be cool, ‘cause they’re gonna eat us in a sec.” Rhodey’s voice brings him back out of the reverie he’d been in.

“Right, focus up everyone. P- Spidey, we’re taking these bastards down. You don’t have the firepower we need to actually break skin, but knocking them off our trail would help.”

Peter nods. “Got it.”

“Let’s kick some ass.”

 

He makes sure to keep a close eye on Peter throughout the fight. Kid doesn’t have armour, nor is he some god.

 

The fight seems to work a lot quicker with the kid helping out.

 

* * *

 

From the point where Peter swung in, the battle still rages for multiple hours.

 

And now there’s octo-guts all over the place. Thor, Loki and Valkyrie look like this is a normal occurrence — who knows, maybe it is on Asgard —, but Peter and Rhodey look disgusted by the spattering of blood across their suits. To be honest, Tony is too.

“Right, we’re all here?”

“Yeah. I think _they’re_ all dead, Mr. Stark.” Peter sounds exhausted, and Tony can’t blame him for it. Octo-gods are a bit more to handle than muggers.

“That’s good. That’s good. Right! We’re- we’re all good, then. Pile on in to the quinjet, guys, we’re going home.”

 

He doesn’t hear any objections, and everyone shuffles into the quinjet.

 

Peter lags behind a little bit. Tony frowns.

“Kid? You good?”

“Hm? Oh, y-yeah, I’m good. I wanna get out of the suit. It’s cold.”

“I’ve got clothes in the Quinjet waiting. You might wanna keep the mask on, though.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

“No problem. You did great out there.”

 

He can’t see Peter’s face, but he’s pretty sure the kid is blushing a little. He leans into Tony, and Tony gently slings his arm over the kid’s shoulder as they walk into the quinjet.

 

“The clothes are in that compartment over there. Bathroom’s over there. Go nuts.” The eyes of Peter’s mask widen slightly before the kid nods and heads off.

 

Tony sits heavily on the quinjet’s bench. Thor and Loki mumble to Valkyrie (in Asgardian? Tony can’t understand them), and Bruce nods slowly at certain points of the story. It wouldn’t surprise him if the genius has already learned Thor’s mother tongue.

 

He closes his eyes, and about two minutes afterwards he feels a slight pressure on his side. Obviously it’s Peter, but it’s always adorable to see the kid napping.

 

In his civilian clothes.

 

With the mask on.

 

It’s kind of funny to see Peter in his civvies with the mask on. _Kind of_ meaning very, because he’s wearing a science shirt with a pun on it _with the mask on as well_. Maybe it’s just how tired he is, but it seems unnaturally funny. But that can’t be comfortable, can it? The suit isn’t designed to be slept on.

 

The suit opens out, and Tony steps forward. Peter doesn’t seem to notice — maybe he’s already asleep? It’s unlike the kid, but Tony won’t hold it against him. Who knows what he was doing before the fight?

“C’mon, kid. Suit’s not comfortable.” As soon as he sits down again, Peter slumps over into his shoulder.

 

Tony tenses up.

 

The kid feels feverishly hot against his side. Suddenly, his tiredness takes a darker meaning. Tony doesn’t dare bring attention to it though, because for one, the kid is _asleep_ and he needs to be, and two, he can already imagine how embarrassed Peter would be if he found out he’d passed out from a fever in front of Thor.

“Hey, Point Break.” He calls. Thor looks over to him, confused, before he zeroes in on Peter with a frown.

“Is he okay?”

“Hm? Yeah, he’s just tired. Could you carry the armour in to the compound? FRIDAY will tell you where to put it, but-” He gestures to Peter, sleeping against his arm. “My arms are gonna be full.”

 

Thor nods. Tony mouths ‘thank you’ before turning his attention back to Peter. He can’t see the kid’s face, which is a mixture of a saving grace — he’d probably freak out — and a curse — he can’t see how bad the kid could be hurt.

 

When they land, he’s certain Peter is out cold. He waits until everyone else leaves — Thor with the suit — before he tries to disturb the kid, pulling the mask off to reveal a flushed face.

“Peter? Pete, wake up, buddy.” Tony gets a small hum in response. Peter leans further into his arm.

 

Tony sighs, but scoops up Peter anyway. The kid’s curls tickle his nose (he really wants to sneeze), but he keeps walking anyway. He _really_ is out cold, and Tony almost wants to be upset for not noticing it earlier — the congested tone of Peter’s voice, the unusual lethargy…

 

Peter nestles further into his chest. The kid’s so _clingy_ …

 

When he rests Peter down on his bed, the kid still has an iron grip around Tony’s body. Yeah, he’s not gonna be escaping that any _time_ soon.

 

He lies down on the bed as well, and the kid clings even tighter. Tony frowns. This is well beyond the normal realms of clinginess for the kid, this is- it feels desperate, like Peter’s trying to cling to him.

 

Like he’s gonna disappear if the kid lets go.

 

 _Ben_.

 

Oh.

 

“It’s okay, Pete. I’m not gonna go away any time soon.” When Peter curls up into a small ball, Tony just stays there. Says reassuring things in the gentlest tone he can muster, runs his hands through the kid’s hair. Eventually, the fevered thrashings and mumblings die down.

 

Good. The kid deserves to be able to sleep well for once.

“Sleep tight, kid. I’m here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> loki respects my man, don't @ me
> 
> (valkyrie drinks the compound out of all its alcoholic beverages)


	9. Stranded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony finally sees what happened on Homecoming. Or the building, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah i decided i needed this one for angst

Tony blearily blinks awake. He’s not very comfortable right now, which is odd, because he’s always comfortable when he wakes up in his bed and-

 

The previous night rushes back to him. The mission. Demon-octopus-monsters. The kid-

 

The kid’s fever. And the nightmares throughout the night.

 

Tony winces. He knows it’s just because the fever’s kicking Peter’s ass right now, and it was nothing more than a delirium-fuelled fever dream talking, but it had not been a pleasant experience to have to hold the kid as he whimpered into Tony’s chest, whispering near-silent cries about being unable to breathe and wanting to go home.

 

It had been heartbreaking. It still is to think about, because the kid is still curled up against his chest like it’s the only thing keeping him safe from the rest of the world. He remembers the panic in Peter’s eyes clear as day — slightly clouded from fever, wide and glassy in appearance, like he was about to cry. Scared. Obviously caught up in the memory of something else, because he had grasped at Tony like he was the only thing that could save him from whatever demon his own mind had conjured up.

 

It’s crushing him. Because Peter expected Tony to protect him from Toomes on some level, apparently, and he had failed. So he had wrapped his arm around the kid and tried running his hands through sweaty curls (he couldn’t tell if that was the fault of the fever or the fear, and came to the unsettling conclusion that it was most likely both) until the kid started to sleep a little less fitfully.

 

It still took a long while before Peter dropped back into a restful sleep, and Tony was left clutching at the shards of the kid’s fear. Even now, where Peter sleeps (at least hopefully) peacefully, Tony can’t help but whisper hushed reassurances to the kid because it had broken his heart to see just how terrified Peter was.

 

He knows that a building went down on the kid. What he doesn’t know is the truth behind the statement — he can’t tell if it was a near miss that scarred the kid (rightfully), or if it was (god forbid) a situation where a building actually collapsed on top of the kid.

 

He can’t help the kid if he doesn’t know what happened to him. Tony definitely wants to learn what potential triggers he should avoid to make it easier on the kid. God knows PTSD is _not_ easy to handle, especially when the victim is as young as Peter is.

 

So slowly, Tony detaches himself from the kid’s iron grip and rearranges Peter’s limbs so they’re not splayed across the bed. He knows that the kid gets cold quickly. It’s science for him to tuck the comforter up to the kid’s neck and make sure the pillows are comfortable for him.

 

Yeah, science.

 

Tony steps out of the room quietly.

“FRIDAY, keep me updated on his health. If his fever even budges you tell me, alright? I’m heading down to the labs.”

_‘Yes boss.’_

 

He’s a man on a mission as he walks down the halls towards the lab. His mission?

 

Help his kid.

 

He’s gonna figure out what happened to Peter so he can support the kid better — he feels woefully inadequate like this, hardly understanding and unable to help the kid as is.

 

He wants to help the kid through his PTSD because Tony knows how it feels to be stuck navigating it himself. (He wouldn’t wish that suffering upon anyone, ever.)

 

He pets DUM-E absently when he gets to the labs, and makes a beeline straight for the largest holotable available. He swipes every project that’s already on there into a hastily made junk folder (he’ll regret that later when he can’t find whatever projects those are).

“FRIDAY, bring up all major police-cordoned areas around New York in the past few months. Major incidents, like a building collapse.”

 _‘Bringing up the files, hold on.’_ FRIDAY’s voice changes tone to something notably more wary, perhaps even nervous.

Maybe she doesn’t want to see what happens either.

 

He has to. For the kid.

 

Unsurprisingly, there are only a few files left. A shooting in central New York, the robbery of the ATM across from Peter’s favourite shop — Delmar’s? — and a mysterious building collapse in Brooklyn.

 

Mouth suddenly dry, he clicks on the file. There’s nothing of note there except security footage from the months leading up to the collapse.

 

Which means local CCTV probably caught the collapse.

 

He swallows roughly, and presses on the first file.

 

Nothing really happens. The feed is grainy; the buildings and roads black and grey ( _December 16, 1991_ echoes in his head), fading to orange where the street light casts its glow, and it’s hard to distinguish much else. It just looks like a simple warehouse, nothing more, nothing less. So Tony sets the video to fast forward. A car and van park up multiple times outside the warehouse before people come out with draped bundles and chuck them in haphazardly before disappearing off again. Toomes’ bunch, then.

 

The dates on the video files fly by before something interesting happens.

 

Something interesting being the bigass Vulture suit itself landing roughly, and the guy inside hopping out and rushing into the building with what looks like panic.

 

Which can only mean…

 

Tony leans in a little closer to the monitor, and nearly leaps backward at the sudden movement of a car (being driven _horribly_ ) onto the scene.

 

He can only just see the driver.

 

Peter?

 

Oh, for fucks sake. No wonder the kid doesn’t chuck himself into the car excitedly anymore. He’d want to stay away from cars too if he did that.

 

He watches a little red and blue blob — Peter, in his goddamn _onesie_ — completely total a car before leaping out of the smoldering wreckage and running out towards the building. He’s almost reassured to see the energy in the kid before he disappears into the building.

 

Maybe it’s because it’s been completely absent from the kid for months now.

 

Tony blinks and makes himself sober up. Whatever happened in that building had screwed the kid up, majorly.

 

He keeps watching for another few minutes. It might just be because he _knows_ something is going to go horribly, horribly wrong, and the fact that everything has gone quiet and motionless again, but his chest is literally being crushed by his anxiety and-

 

The building goes down. Toomes leaves, Peter doesn’t.

 

Tony gnaws on his knuckle, hard. It’s only just enough for him to label the stinging in his eyes as not caused by the fact that _his kid spent god knows how long buried under that rubble,_ alone and in a suit that provided less protection than goddamn tissue paper.

 

Suddenly, going through these security files seems like a terrible idea, and he wants to drop it all right now to go make sure the kid is alive and safe and not _pinned under a fucking building_. From what he knows, Toomes has a kid. How could any father do that to a _child?_  How could anyone with a child try to kill one?

 

But he can’t help the kid if he doesn’t understand everything that happened that night.

 

He watches, heart in his throat, as the screen stays as it is. There’s dust rising from the rubble in plumes, partially obscuring the image from view, and he’s glad there’s no audio because he would have found Toomes and killed the man himself by now if there had been.

 

His stomach climb into his throat as the five minute mark passes without any movement.

 

_Ten minutes._

 

_Fifteen minutes._

 

_Twenty-_

 

Finally, something happens.

 

It’s just not what he _expected_ to happen.

 

Peter doesn’t walk or even crawl out from the rubble.

 

The rubble shifts, and moves upwards, and Tony nearly chokes on his spit at the sight of _Peter lifting god know how many tons of concrete off himself_. By _himself_. In the _onesie_.

 

The kid’s expression — he can see a bit of red peeking out from the kid’s fist, that’s gotta be the mask — is tight with pain, and Tony can imagine he would have been yelling or even screaming in pain because _shit_ , nobody is meant to lift that much. But soon, the kid manages to squirm out from underneath the huge slab pinning him.

“FRIDAY? Enhance image.” He mumbles, the sound so quiet it’s hardly even there. The video zooms in slightly on the kid.

 

Tony can see dust, blood and tear tracks on the kid’s face. There’s thin red tracks down his fingers that aren’t the mask.

 

Peter collapses to the floor briefly, leaning against a rocky slab. Tony wants to reach out and protect the kid, because he already knows what’s gonna happen next.

 

He can’t unsee how Peter has to lean against the walls just to fucking stand.

 

Jesus.

 

The kid was stranded under a building. Alone.

 

Under a building.

 

Tons of rubble, pinning him to the floor.

 

_Alone._

 

Tony stands. He’s not leaving the kid again, not for a while.

 

(His heart hurts a whole lot more when he realises just why Peter is so clingy. The second he sits down on the bed next to the kid to make sure he’s okay (totally not to ruffle the kid’s curls), the kid leans into his hand, and suddenly Tony can’t find the will to leave again.)

 

(Peter hugs him. He hugs back.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i should make a whumptober playlist


	10. Bruises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things aren't always what they seem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> implied / referenced child abuse

The second Peter walks into his lab, Tony knows something is _off_ about him. He looks slightly pale, and there’s a dark bruise ringing his eye on the left side. Tony hisses in sympathetic pain for the kid and strolls over, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, Underoos. How’s it going?” He can’t really see much of Peter’s face from under the giant hoodie he’s wearing, but he doesn’t bring it up — it’s starting to reach the winter months now, he knows Peter can’t keep his body temperature even very well. Who knows? The kid might just need the hoodie to stay warm.

“I’m good, Mr. Stark.” Peter’s voice is a little croaky so he watches as the kid raises a hand — bruised as well, did he punch a wall or something? — to clear his throat. He looks up to meet Tony’s eyes.

 

Tony looks appraisingly at the kid. He doesn’t look nearly as exhausted as he had been a few weeks back when his PTSD had been running rampant — thank god he managed to catch that behaviour pattern before it got too debilitating — but he does look a little tired still. Tony slings an arm over the kid’s shoulder.

 

He wonders if the slight flinch away from his arm is an early sign of a sensory overload.

 

The strange behaviour continues even after they start work in the labs. Peter gathers chemicals for his web fluid, and when he sits down it’s like the action physically pains him.

“You alright, kid?”

“I’m alright.” It comes out as a whisper, and Peter clears his throat again. Maybe he’s coming down with something. Tony walks over to where he’s sat and takes a seat next to him.

“Are you sure? You can tell me if something’s happened.” Peter looks at him, eyes searching, before he pulls down the hood.

 

There are a lot more bruises than the one around the kid’s face. Tony swallows roughly at what looks like bruises around the kid’s neck (what kind of mugger tries to choke out a _superhero_?) and small bruise patches littering pale skin. He feels sick. Someone had tried to choke out his kid. He pulls the kid in for a brief hug (he doesn’t usually like them, but this is _Peter_ , and the kid needs the affection right now).

“Bad patrol?” Peter flinches slightly at the question; looks down.

“Yeah. That.” Tony frowns, but doesn’t pressure Peter too hard about it. He knows the kid will tell him if he really wants to. After all, they’ve got all that homecoming fiasco stuff out of the way. Tony likes to think Peter trusts him more than ever. Tony trusts Peter more than he ever did the Avengers.

 

He’d like to think that the bond that he and Peter have built between themselves could be considered a father-son sort of thing.

 

So he knows Peter will talk to him when he wants to. And if he doesn’t? That’s fine as well.

 

* * *

 

Peter’s bizarre behaviour persists throughout the day. Looking exhausted after simple lifting tasks. Coughing sharply after laughing. Flinching at sudden movements.

It comes to a head when, at some point in the day, Tony goes to show Peter something he’s been working on (an upgraded model for the nanobots he wants to use in the Mark 50’s final model). He walks up to Peter and claps a hand onto the kid’s shoulder-

 

And the kid fully recoils backwards, back slamming against the wall, before sliding downwards to the floor, his knees up to chest and his arms protecting his head.

 

Tony immediately flinches backwards at the jerky reaction, trying to figure out what to do. Hell, what does he do? Did he hurt the kid? Is it just Peter approaching a sensory overload and subconsciously escaping contact to avoid it? He’s panicking, he knows, but the behaviour is just so out of character and unusual that it’s completely thrown him off his normal rhythm. He needs to take a mental step back from this, see the bigger picture.

 

The bigger…

 

Tony blinks. Swallows roughly.

 

Because looking at Peter, re-evaluating how the kid’s body language is screaming at him. The way he’s trying to protect his head and body in specific, the way he trembles slightly, the way he’s tenses like he’s expecting a blow…

 

Just like him. Just like he did as a kid on those nights where he stayed up late playing and Howard came back from events drunk.

  


Someone’s been abusing the kid.

  


_His_ kid.

 

Tony walks over to where Peter is huddled calmly and drops down beside the kid just as slowly despite how his insides feel like they’re withering from his rage and there’s this twisting feeling in his heart. Because he _knows_ what’s happened to instil this reaction.

“It’s okay, Pete. I’m not gonna hurt you. It’s okay.” Peter doesn’t respond, he just… stays there. Catatonic. He’s probably caught between his memories and his instincts right now. That’s okay. That’s fine.

 

When he goes to rest his hand on the kid’s shoulder, he does it slowly. Gently, without any traces of urgency or potential malice waiting to become obvious upon contact. Peter flinches slightly, but doesn’t lash out, which is either potentially good, or devastating because it means whoever has been beating his kid has managed to get the thought that he isn’t allowed to fight back into his head.

 

Peter would never fight back against a person anyway. He’s always too scared of hurting people, even if they deserve it.

 

Tony slowly and gently coaxes Peter out of his curled position against the wall, tenderly using hands to bring the kid’s arms and legs away from his body and his face into the open. The darkened marks on his face seem so much more obvious now.

“I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

 

He watches Peter come back in the span of about three seconds, and in three stages. First, the kid looks up; blinks slowly. Then the dazed hollowness empties out and emotion floods back into his glassy, too big eyes, and finally the shock drains out and he can tell that Peter is back in the room, and not trapped in some memory.

 

Tony doesn’t flinch when Peter hug-tackles him, just rubs his back in little circles and brings his hand to support the back of the kid’s head as his frame is wracked with silent sobs. Tony’s eyes prickle dangerously, so he lets his chin rest on Peter’s head lightly.

 

Has he not suffered enough?

 

“You’re alright. You’re safe, kid.” Tony lifts his head and opens his eyes again. He can feel that his cheeks are wet from his own tear tracks, and he tightens his hold on the kid fractionally. How can anyone be so cruel to a kid…? Let alone a kid like Peter, who literally helps people in his spare time and is easily gonna be one of the best people the universe could ever offer?

 

Tony shakes his head, and casts an evaluating look over the kid. There are bruises on his face, neck, and probably more over his body that are hidden by his baggy clothes. They look too fresh to be from last night’s patrol. Tony’s throat tightens with nausea.

“Where did you get these? _Actually_ get these, Peter.” He doesn’t get a response. Tony would never blame the kid for not talking — if what he _thinks_ is going on is _actually_ going on, the kid has more than enough reason to be wary of everyone right now. Tony squeezes the hug a little tighter.

“That’s okay, buddy. That’s fine. Just… you can tell me anything, you know that, right?” He feels Peter nod shallowly and reassuringly runs a hand through the kid’s hair. Peter doesn’t lean in to the contact like he normally does, and that’s the second that it hits home just how much Peter has been affected by whatever has happened. Tony frowns.

“It’s just… it’s a little rough. At home.” Tony grips tighter at the kid’s back. Peter returns the contact. He doesn’t think for a second that May would ever raise a hand to Peter — it would be an attack on the woman herself. She loves Peter more than she loves life itself, she’d never hurt him. Tony knows that as a certainty.

 

So _how…_

 

He remembers back, back to a while ago. A snippet of information.

He frowns. “May got a new boyfriend, didn’t she-”

 

Tony’s mouth shuts with an audible _click_. No. _Nonono_. His heart starts to pound in his chest, so hard it feels like it’s going to shatter his artificial sternum.

“He _isn’t_. Is he?” Peter just clutches harder and buries his head into Tony’s chest. He can feel the kid starting to tremble again. _No_.

“ _Kid_. He _is_ , isn’t he?”

 

Tony gets a small nod in response, a motion he’d easily categorise as hesitant, and his world comes to a halt.

“Oh, _buddy_.” He clutches Peter tight to his chest and gently hold the kid’s head so it’s above his heart. He knows being able to hear heartbeats is something that reassures the kid, and right now, he’s not in a position to say no to anything Peter asks for.

“Can- can I stay here tonight? I don’t wanna go home…” His heart twinges in his chest at the teary whisper. It’s hard for him to acknowledge the fact that Peter fears this new guy more than he wants to go back home, and he nods softly. Peter stares up at him with wide eyes. Wide, _scared_ eyes. The ring of thick bruises around Peter’s neck — greens, yellows, blacks, blues — is so painfully obvious that Tony wants to just wrap him up and protect him from everyone else that even tries to get close to him. And maybe throw up. And possibly find where the guy lives to beat the ever living shit out of him.  Every time something potentially good happens to the kid…

 

He realises abruptly that this is Peter’s first experience with anyone May tries to date. It’s probably gonna make his anxiety regarding the situation worse.

 

(It’ll be a miracle if he lets anyone else in close at all, to be honest.)

 

“Peter, of _course_. You can stay here. I’ll make up a cover for you.” He thinks long and hard about what he’ll tell May about this.

 

He decides on the truth.

 

It’s horrible. May’s been through a lot, and she might have something with this guy.

 

But May loves Peter as much as he does, probably more. She needs to know. She’d never forgive herself if the bastard kept beating her kid senseless under her nose.

 

He waits for Peter to fall asleep before he moves. When he does, he picks the kid up and tenderly rests him on the plushest couch the lab has before swathing him in blankets and staying close to him until he knows that the kid is definitely, one hundred percent asleep.

“I’ve got you buddy. I’ve got you. I’m gonna keep you safe.”

 

He feels Peter nestle further into his side.

 

[When he tells May, she’s goes into hysterics almost immediately. He’s quick to reassure her that she couldn’t have known about it, but she hardly listens. He learns how the guy had been so gentle with her that she’d almost felt at ease for the first time for a long time. It breaks his heart to hear her asking for Peter. He answers the questions that he can before she puts the phone down to think.]

 

[The next day, as per May’s request, he shows up at the Parker apartment himself (in the suit) to make sure the bastard leaves quietly.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel bad for plot devicing may's love life but.
> 
> whump


	11. Hypothermia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't take a swim in the local river.
> 
> Don't do it at night.
> 
> Don't do it when your genes mean you get cold super easy.
> 
> Just... don't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because tony and may being the best coparents is something yall didnt even know you needed

He doesn’t particularly care what other people say — no matter how many times it happens, Peter is still thrilled whenever Mr. Stark comes on a patrol with him. It’s crazy to think that- that Tony Stark is interested in what Peter Parker is doing. It makes sense that Iron Man would hang around with Spider-Man, because they’re both based around New York, but…

 

It’s still weird to acknowledge the fact that _Tony Stark_ is involved in his life. It’s weirder to acknowledge the fact that _Tony Stark_ is like… his pseudo-dad. Kinda. It’s kind of hard to ignore the fact that Tony has been there for him consistently since that time after he got stabbed in the alley. Seriously. He’s been able to hug the man, to be vulnerable around him.

 

Tony isn’t Ben, he never could be. But Tony is _Tony_. His not-quite dad.

 

He lets go of his web and lets himself be pulled towards the Earth before aiming and firing another web at a building. He’s a little anxious about how he knows he’s approaching the body of water that is the Hudson (especially given that it’s so dark right now), but he knows Mr. Stark is there if anything goes wrong.

 

He swings around another corner, narrowly avoiding making contact with a building. The whine of Mr. Stark’s repulsors echoes off the taller buildings. Peter pulls himself upwards sharply and completes a small flip to regain some lost height — he can see the bright repulsor light now — and throws his momentum forward on the web, gaining speed quickly, and-

 

The web pulls taut, and he feels a snap, and then he’s falling down.

 

It’s too dark. He can’t see where he’s going-

 

The faint light of a passing car illuminates a dark, rippling body.

 

 _The Hudson_.

 

Peter contorts himself awkwardly and aims his wrist at a building, pressing his fingers down hard on the button at the center of his palm-

 

The web shooter gives a sad sputtering noise.

 

Looking at the rapidly approaching body of water, he can’t help but flash back to Toomes. The drop, the fear, the-

 

The-

 

Peter impacts the body of water harshly.

 

His chest instantly seizes up from the penetrating chill of the water across his body, and he slams his mouth shut to stop water from getting in (any more than it already has).

 

Within seconds, his chest is burning from not breathing under the water and it’s Toomes, it’s _Toomes_ , he’s gonna drown because his limbs are trapped in his parachute and he’s gonna die down here.

 

He can feel himself thrashing around in the water, but he can’t control his limbs any more, and all he can see it that same murky blackness surrounding his vision.

 

Everything hurts, needles of ice are stabbing into his skin everywhere, he’s so _cold_ -

 

There’s a pinpointed white patch above the surface of the water, rippling and moving prettily before everything goes black.

 

* * *

 

Tony sees it all happening in slow motion. From the small but graceful flip Peter did to the second his web snaps, he sees it all.

 

He watches Peter hit the surface of the Hudson and he sees the kid not come back up with the sensation of dread, panic and fear making residence in his chest once again.

 

Only Peter can easily elicit so much panic from him. Instantly, he heads over to the point where FRIDAY marked Peter’s entry point to the river and flies into it without a second thought.

 

It’s dark. Like, _really_ dark. He has to use the repulsors on his hands just to be able to see more than an inch in front of him, and the light dissipates quickly into the murkiness.

 

Panic enters his bloodstream, and he starts his search. Peter can’t last long in the cold, or under water. He searches for what feels like hours, but has to be about a minute, for Peter under the water. It feels suffocating even though he’s safe from the water, and it’s ironic because _Peter is suffocating right now_.

 

There.

 

There’s an unmoving patch of red and blue against murky black. Tony reaches out and grabs a motionless arm. He thinks he might see a twitch of Peter’s head and a spasm, but he can’t tell.

 

 _Nononononono_ , please no. Please let him be okay.

 

He doesn’t check on the kid, he just grabs him and once Peter is secure in his arm, he flies out of the river like it’s made of poison.

 

It might as well be, for how much it’s hurting his kid.

 

The second he breaches the surface of the water, he hears Peter suck in a painful sounding, hoarse breath that’s quickly followed up by what sounds like choking.

“Easy, kid! Easy, you’re fine! Breathe, _breathe_. I got you. You’re safe.” He can feel Peter shakily scrabbling for a grip on him. He lets it happen.

“Hold on, kid. You’re okay. You’re gonna be fine.” Peter’s breaths are cloudy puffs against the surrounding skies, fading away too quickly to be normal.

 

He gets to a rooftop before he lets himself touch the ground again, and sets Peter down next to him. The kid makes an aborted attempt to curl up. Tony steps back, and casts a critical eye on the kid —  he needs to overview him, make sure he’s not injured and he hasn’t swallowed any water. God knows he doesn’t need pneumonia.

 

Peter’s shaking like a leaf in the wind, and can only nod or shake his head in response to the quiet questions he asks. He’s cold, and definitely shaken up.

 

He’s pretty sure the kid had flashed to when Toomes dropped him in the lake.

 

He’s dragged from his musings when FRIDAY speaks up.

 _‘Boss, Peter’s showing symptoms of a rapid onset case of hypothermia. You need to get him somewhere warm.’_ Tony jolts at the news; looks closely at Peter’s face. His lips are turning blue, he’s too pale in the face, and he knows that if he were to take off the kid’s gloves they’d show blue fingernails too. He picks the kid up gently, ignoring the small, pained noise that comes out afterwards.

“Come on, kid. Let’s get you home.” He’s only got one thing on his mind now:

 

Get the kid home to Queens.

 

It’s upsetting that, when he gets there, he has to help Peter through his bedroom window before he lets the suit collapse back into his briefcase and walk back into the apartment complex.

 

What, it’s not like he’s gonna leave his hypothermic kid to it.

 

He walks through the halls until he gets to the apartment number that he knows belongs to the Parkers, and knocks lightly. He must half expect Peter to answer the door-

 

Because when May opens it, confused, he’s almost surprised by it.

“Tony. Is everything okay?” Her expression goes from confused to worried before he can even blink. He’s quick to raise his hands placatingly.

“Everything’s good-”

 

He bites down on his tongue at the May Parker ‘ _look of disbelief_ ’ as Peter had called it before.

“Alright, I’m making sure Peter’s okay because he crashed into the Hudson on patrol-”

“I’m sorry, he _what_?!”

“I got him out, he’s fine, maybe a little cold, but I was already out and I decided to just make sure he’s good and all that-”

 

May hugs him abruptly. Tony pauses; considering, and returns the hug hesitantly. He’s still not used to the frequent displays of affection the Parkers share between everyone.

“Thank you for keeping him safe.”

“I’m just doing what I can, May.”

“I know. You’re keeping him safe because you care about him.”

He blinks, shocked. “I’m sorry?”

“C’mon, we’re his unofficial co-parents by this point.” He huffs a laugh, because it’s true. How hadn’t he noticed? He and May are basically coparenting the kid at this point.

 

Whatever _thing_ just happened is interrupted by Peter walking out into the hall in baggy pyjamas and a blanket, still unhealthily pale, and definitely on the more confused end of the confusion spectrum.

“Mr. Stark-? What…?”

“I’m making sure you’re not gonna do your spider-thing and freeze to death.” Peter flushes slightly, but instead of joining in the conversation, he just heads towards the couch and curls up in his blanket. His hair is still wet from the water, and he’s still shivering. Tony frowns slightly. It’s unusual for the kid to be so tired when he’s well rested, but he guesses the kid _did_ nearly drown, so…

 

May must notice the bluish tinge of Peter’s fingers and lips, because she heads over to sit down next to the kid and-

“Tony, c’mon. Sit down, we’re not gonna bite you or anything.” Perhaps awkwardly, he sits down next to Peter, and realises the kid is wedged between them.

 

Maybe the thing May said about co parenting has its merits. She puts the TV on, and the room falls into a quiet atmosphere. It’s peaceful, and it’s nice. It feels natural.

 

[It takes a while, but eventually Peter falls asleep leaning on Tony, mouth slightly parted, and Tony has unconsciously started mussing the kid’s curls. He looks down fondly before becoming aware of May staring at him, phone in hand (so much blackmail material forever, if Rhodey or Happy ever found out…), and smiling slightly. He freezes, but she gestures for him to ignore her.]

  
[Tony falls asleep long after Peter and May, but the _family_ atmosphere in the room is something he doesn’t know how he lived without.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> l a r b


	12. Electrocution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking Toomes out wasn't the last part of cleaning alien tech off the streets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bzzt

Peter’s quiet grunt echoes through the empty warehouse as he lands. Tony looks back to where the kid is walking over to him, footfalls nearly silent.

 

It isn’t the first time this has happened. Ever since a time a few days ago where they had come across a common criminal using _alien tech_ — Tony had had to coax Peter out of a PTSD episode before it became debilitating —, they had started tracking the bizarre signatures that came from such tech usage.

 

Turns out, it’s the last few associates of Toomes with stocks of resources and the designs to make weapons. Naturally, when he had tried to start tackling the criminal cells, Peter had swung along with him. He’s been by his side since the first time.

 

It had taken a slightly more sinister turn after the fourth, fifth (?) cell, where the alien designs had started looking less crude and started looking more high-end. More functional.

 

After a few minutes of rifling through tech, Peter had called him over to see-

 

A half formed alien rifle, with a deformed metal plate that was definitely part of a _Stark Industries_ product. It looked recent, but Tony still felt nauseous at his tech being weaponized.

 

Again.

 

Suddenly, busting these weapon rings felt less of a project to share with his kid and more of a necessity.

 

Hence why they’re in a warehouse. Peter’s nervous; he can tell by the way the kid fidgets and looks around awkwardly. Tony can’t blame him. If _he_ got pinned under a warehouse, he’d never go back into one. The kid’s braver than he’ll ever be.

 

This warehouse had been smaller, minimal security. The few guards who had been around — Peter managed to fight off two, Tony knocked out the third — aren’t a problem now. The suit opens out at the front and Tony steps out.

“FRIDAY, sentry mode please. Keep a lookout for us.” The suit closes up again and one of its arms raise up, gauntlet charged and ready.

_‘On it.’_

 

The computers are what he beelines for instantly. That’s how it’s been during their raids — Tony gets the files from the computer, Peter searches for any Toomes-esque weaponry.

“Mr. Stark, there’s nothing here. Can’t find any weapons anywhere, not even in all the lil’... nooks and crannies… I think we’re good.”

 

Tony huffs. _Nooks and crannies_. What a dork.

 

He becomes completely absorbed in the files on the battered screen. There’s a lot of information, mostly useless dirt and communications, nothing really of any importance. He frowns.

 

Something feels off-

 

“Mr. Stark, look out-!” Tony whirls around sharply at the desperate tone in Peter’s voice, and a flare of dread bubbles up in his chest when he sees the weird weapon that the _apparently_ not-as-unconscious-as-he-thought goon is holding. It’s alien, for sure, but looks like a modified police taser.

 

So much for no weapons.

 

This was a trap.

 

And it’s coming straight for him. With Tony’s weak heart, he won’t survive that. He just hopes, maybe even _prays_ that Peter doesn’t see it happen. God knows the kid’s already lost enough.

 

An abrupt shove sends him to the floor quickly. By the time Tony manages to stand back up, Peter is in front of him, arms splayed out to the sides.

 

_Peter._

 

“Kid-!”

A sickening series of crackling noises ring out through the warehouse as the purple-ish energy makes contact with Peter’s side, and Tony’s heart slows to a halt. No. This can’t be happening. The ringing in his ears takes over for a few seconds, and the world turns static as he watches, frozen in his body.

 

It’s like a horror movie. The way the guy keeps the taser pressed to Peter’s side, sinister grin stuck firmly on his face — it all seems like it’s following the script to the kind of movies a person with a heart condition should _not_ be watching.

 

And then those few seconds end, and the pained scream that’s been coming from Peter’s lips jolts to an abrupt stop. There’s the sound of a body hitting the floor, and Tony watches, horrified, as Peter’s limbs jerk a little in some aborted attempt to fight the guy off. For the first time in his life, Tony wishes for it to go silent, but it doesn’t. It looks like the goon has learned from the mistakes of the others Tony and Peter have taken down, because he keeps the taser pressed to the kid’s chest, the malevolent crackling unceasing, until he doesn’t even twitch anymore.

 

Tony’s blood boils.

“FRIDAY, gimme a hand here!” The rage in his bloodstream doesn’t numb the sensation of one of the Iron Man suit gauntlets closing around his fist, not at all. If anything, the sounds of metal plates locking together and the repulsor charging up are a relief to sorely stressed ears. It’s with what should be a somewhat frightening kind of satisfaction that the guy’s expression drops after seeing what must be _murder_ written on Tony’s face, clear as day. Even as Tony storms forward, the other gauntlet closing around his other fist after a harried command, the anger doesn’t die down because _that’s his kid that asswipe just tased_. So yeah, maybe he’s a little bit less refined that normal when he blasts the taser out of the guy’s hands and then to pieces. Maybe he’s less kind when he catches the sloppily thrown punch and responds with his own. Maybe he’s less polite than normal when he drags the guy away from Peter and drops him to the floor.

 

_That’s my kid you just tased._

 

Tony takes a breath in an attempt to calm himself. He doesn’t need the anger right now. He jogs back to Peter’s side, where the kid still lies on the floor. There’s no visible responses to his approaching footsteps.

“Alright, kid. You- you okay?” He winces. Obviously not. The kid just got tased by some whacky alien machine. He’s probably just taking a breather.

 

He isn’t even doing a good job convincing _himself_.

“Kid? Come on, nap time’s over. You did great, but now we gotta get out of here. FRIDAY’s got the files this place had, so we’re done, because these guys never really got off the ground in manufacturing them. C’mon.” There still isn’t any response to his rambling, and Tony’s chest goes cold once again. Dropping to a crouch, he rests the gauntlet on Peter’s chest.

“FRIDAY, read vitals.” Tony’s thankful that the suit’s gauntlets can transmit information back to the main suit — it’s saved the time it would have taken to get it back on. But it still takes time, endless and agonisingly long seconds for the report to come back in.

_‘No pulse. Cardiopulmonary resuscitation is required.’_

 

Ironically, it feels like it’s _his_ heart that’s stopping.

 

“ _Shit-!_ C’mon, kid, you don’t get to desert like this.” Tony tears the gauntlets off himself with trembling hands. He can’t lose Peter. He _can’t._ The kid- he’s come so far, he’s so strong, and Tony _refuses_ to let some lowlife take Peter out of the world.

 

The world feels like a weight on his shoulders when he presses his hands to Peter’s chest, above the kid’s heart (his _too young_ heart that should be _beating_ ) and starts pressing down.

 

_One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten…_

“FRIDAY?”

_‘Pulse still not detected. Continue.’_

“Okay, Okay. Okay.”

_Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty…_

“Come on kid, stay with me. Come on.”

_Twenty one, twenty two, twenty three, twenty four, twenty five, twenty six, twenty seven, twenty eight, twenty nine, thirty…_

“Kid. Please. Please, don’t go. C’mon, stay with me.”

_One, two, three, four, five, six-_

_‘Pulse detected.’_

 

There’s no dramatic sputtering or jerking upright, just that notification. Tony blinks, and sucks in a relieved breath.

 

His cheeks are wet. Surprised, Tony reaches up and touches his cheeks-

 

Tears. He’d been _crying_?

 

He shakes his head; picks Peter up and exits the warehouse quickly. There was no information anyways.

“FRIDAY, bring around the cops.”

_‘On it.’_

 

* * *

 

Tony settles Peter down on the couch gently. He looks exhausted. He tugs a blanket over the kid.

 

Bruce said the kid was okay, and his healing would take care of the entry burns and stress on his body. It doesn’t make him feel any better about how the kid’s been dozing ever since.

 

He’s about to walk away when a gentle grip tugs back on his wrist. Tony turns, surprised-

 

Peter’s looking at him, eyes wide and questioning, and Tony can already hear the unspoken question.

 

_Stay here?_

“Yeah, I’ll stay here. Budge up, kid.”

 

He lays down on the couch, and Peter curls against his side almost instantly.

 

It’s kind of reassuring to hear his even breaths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bzzzZZZZZT


	13. "Stay."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter doesn't like arguing with people. It just doesn't sit right with him.
> 
> So he's pretty sure his reaction to falling out with Ned is understandable.
> 
> Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i.... love interwebs more than life itself...,.

Peter doesn’t argue very often. He finds the whole thing upsetting, and he hates the thought of being isolated from his friends.

 

His stomach growls loudly.

 

Hence why he isn’t dealing very well at the minute.

 

It had been a slip-up; a lapse in remembrance. He had told Ned he was gonna go over to his house after doing his homework, and then there was a huge fire in the news. One thing after the next spiralled out of control, and by the end of the night, the size of the argument he’d had with Ned…

 

Well. That was Tuesday. They haven’t spoken since.

 

And the sensation of dying deep in his chest hasn’t left since. The last time he’d had an argument like this, it had been with Ben, and then- and then-

 

So he’s not coping well. Who can blame him?

 

His head is fuzzy at school. It’s been like that since… maybe a day after the argument? Two? He can’t recall anymore.

 

He’s pretty sure the whole thing was his fault, though. Sometimes, it’s just… he’s meant to be responsible. He’s meant to be neutral. He’s meant to help out, and stop bad things from happening. If he can’t even do that in his own life, then… can he do it for other people?

 

It’s hard to remember what was actually said. Harsh words on both sides, definitely. His chest stings in remembrance. He shouldn’t have snapped, though. Now whenever he’s in class, all he can pay attention to is the fact that he’s not whispering to Ned. They’re not talking at all. Haven’t for days.

 

He’s already lost just about everyone in his life. He can’t lose Ned too.

 

Hence, the moping he’s been doing out of school. When he’s not doing his Spider-thing or helping May, he’s just… he lies in his bed. He can’t find his appetite. It’s all he can do to get himself water every now and then.

 

It wouldn’t be an overstatement to say the time he spends moping is time spent hating himself. He’s been a terrible friend.

 

The days drag by. Slowly, painfully. Ned doesn’t talk to him. MJ just frowns at him. Flash’s teasing is relentless. School gets harder and harder to get through. It’s sheer determination that gets him through Friday.

 

He’s dizzy, sure. Constantly. He can’t focus hard.

 

When he gets home on Friday, he goes straight to sleep. May looks worried, but she doesn’t try to stop him from turning in. Maybe he looks as tired as he feels. Part of him wants to spill everything he did wrong to her, but the rest of him is just… _tired_.

 

He doesn’t expect an apology from Ned. Doesn’t deserve one, either.

 

Which is what makes it so bizarre that, on Saturday, he hears a knock at the door. May’s at work, and Mr. Stark isn’t meant to be visiting. He frowns, but woozily stands up and answers the door.

 

“Hey, Peter. Can I come in?”

 

He nearly slams the door from shock.

 

“N-Ned. Hi. Uh, yeah, sure, uh, come in.” His cheeks burn, and quickly pale again when nausea hits him again. Ned walks in, maybe a little awkwardly, and Peter doesn’t know what to do. He hasn’t prepared for this. He’s not prepared. He doesn’t know what to say.

 

He mills about aimlessly around the apartment. He can feel Ned watching him, but they don’t speak. He nearly trips after a few minutes standing. His head is spinning, like it’s not even attached to his body. Eventually, Peter drops onto the couch next to Ned. He keeps his head down.

“I’m sorry, man.” The withering sensation inside doesn’t die at Ned’s quiet apology. This is his fault, right? Ned shouldn’t have to apologise to him- Ned shouldn’t- he…

“You don’t need to apologise, this- this is on me. I didn’t mean to… I just… I’m terrible. I don’t deserve your- your forgiveness. Or whatever.” The quiet admission makes Ned stare at him so hard he can nearly feel the gaze boring through his skull. He flinches.

“Peter. You are _not_ terrible. I shouldn’t have lashed out like that, especially not after a bad patrol.”

“But- I didn’t…”

“You couldn’t. There’s a difference.”

“I shouldn’t have yelled back.” Ned pulls a face at his words, like Peter isn’t getting his point.

“We both made mistakes. I’ve forgiven you, and you’ve forgiven me, so why don’t you forgive yourself?”

 

That’s… actually a very good question. One he hasn’t been able to answer since he lost Ben. Peter stands up, and the room immediately starts tilting to one side. It’s like someone’s grabbed him by the head and is pushing him to the floor.

“Peter? You alright?”

 

He can’t answer before his strings are cut and he crumples to the floor.

“Holy _shit-_!”

 

* * *

 

He fades in and out for a while. Peter can hear _something_ happening just out of his proper range of hearing, but he can’t focus on it properly. His head hurts.

 

Although, whatever he’s lying on is _not_ the floor he probably collapsed on. The hunger pangs in his stomach… he can’t really remember what’s lead him here.

 

Wait…

 

His eyes snap open, and he recoils slightly from the light.

 

He blinks groggily.

 

Ned’s leaning over him. To Peter, his eyes could almost look concerned. Which is weird, because… they had an argument?

 

His head is still fuzzy. The guilt in his chest, the guilt in his head…

 

He can feel tears starting to run down his cheeks. Ned’s eyes widen.

 

He’s mortified, but his arms don’t listen when he tries to hide his face.

“Peter?! Dude, are you okay? What’s wrong?”

 

He can’t bring himself to speak. He’s just so _tired_. He can’t even resist the hesitant hug Ned brings him into. He’s not sure if he wants to. This is the first significant human contact he’s had in days; the stress almost melts out of him at the touch.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, cheeks embarrassingly wet, and closes his eyes. He can feel the muscles in his face quivering dangerously as he fails to keep his tears at bay, and Ned tightens the hug.

“Hey, it’s okay. We’re good.”

“We _shouldn’t be_. 'm sorry I messed up.” Peter pulls away from the hug, dizzy. He’s not used to his head being so hazy. He doesn’t like it. Ned looks at him, eyes worried.

 

His stomach growls loudly, and it’s followed up by a series of starvation-induced cramps that are bad, even on _his_ pain index. The blood drains from his face.

 

Ned’s looking at him funny.

“Wait… when was the last time you ate?” Ned’s eyes grow hard as the seconds it takes for him to respond tick by slowly. He doesn’t know.

“Uh…”

“ _Peter_.” _Think_. Uh…

“T- Tuesday…? Maybe?” The answer doesn’t seem to satisfy his friend, who reels back a little and looks at him with a slightly horrified expression.

“Peter, it’s _Saturday_ , oh my god.”

He hums quietly, eyes closing again. “I’m tired.”

“You haven’t eaten in _four_ days.” He doesn’t understand why Ned is so bothered. It’s not like-

 

Actually, he did pass out. Maybe it’s gone a little far.

 

He pulls a face. “I had an apple on Thursday.”

“You haven’t eaten _properly_ in four days.” He can feel the couch dip as Ned stands up. He cracks open an eyes.

 

Ned’s moving towards the kitchen.

 

To make him something to eat? After what he said?

“You need to eat.” Peter flails his limbs slightly in an attempt to sit up, only for dizziness to slam into him quickly. His head hits the arm of the couch.

“What…? I can do th’t myself, Ned. Let me up.” Ned pushes his chest back down against the couch. He doesn’t fight back.

“Stay. Stay there. Keep yourself _on the couch_ , or I’ll call May.”

 

There’s never any arguing with that. Peter stays down, despite how he wants to protest.

“You got anything easy to cook lying around?”

He thinks. “Soup…? Maybe. In the cupboard next to the freezer.”

 

His stomach cramps again. He rolls into his side, facing the back of the couch, and wraps his arms around himself. He’s not used to, nor does he like, cramps of this severity.

 

He can hear Ned cooking. He doesn’t want to move. Everything sucks, he’s tired, he’s still groggy, he passed out, and he hasn’t eaten in days. Everything _sucks_.

 

There’s a gentle clattering, and the couch dips again. Peter doesn’t move from his curled position.

“C’mon, Peter. You have to eat.”

 

He rolls over. Ned hands him the bowl. The warmth of it is welcome against his hands — he hadn’t even realised how cold they are —, but his appetite still… it just isn’t there. Peter manages to eat, like, a few spoonfuls of the soup before his stomach gives the first warning cramp. Unless he wants to chuck up, he’s not gonna be able to eat anymore.

 

Ned’s giving him the puppy dog eyes. Peter looks to his soup, then back at Ned. His stomach hurts, but… Ned made that for him. He should eat it.

“C’mon Peter, please finish it. You need to eat. You know your metabolism…” Maybe it’s the pleading tone of voice Ned takes. Maybe it’s how they’re sat pretty close together and he feels more human than he has in days.

 

He eats another spoonful. Then another. Then another, until the bowl is empty and he literally feels like moving will make him puke. He can’t help but feel guilty when Ned takes his bowl up to the kitchen and rests it in the sink — that’s his responsibility, he needs to take care of it — but he can’t move.

 

When Ned sits back down, he’s got blankets (where from, he doesn’t know). Thankfully, Peter takes it and wraps it around himself. Now he’s eaten, he just wants to go to sleep.

“Where’re you hiding your Trek movies?” Peter blinks.

“What?”

“I know you prefer Star Trek, man. I mean, ‘that snow planet with the walking thingies’?” Peter flushes at Ned’s reference to the airport fight. It’s true — the majority of the reason he watches Star Wars is because of how happy it makes Ned. Peter prefers Star Trek. Something about the thought of peaceful progression appeals to him.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Where are they?”

“In the movie cabinet.”

 

They settle on Star Trek: Into Darkness. Not the best movie, but… Peter likes the soundtrack. It’s always been calming. And, like they always do, the second Kirk enters the warp core is the second the water works start.

 

It seems a little more poignant now. The guy with the responsibility sacrificing himself for his family.

 

Huh.

 

His eyelids grow heavy, and he slumps over to the side. He’s pretty sure Ned’s about to doze off too.

 

And for the first time in days, the withering sensation in his chest is absent.

 

* * *

 

[He’s pretty sure he feels May tucking another blanket over them after she comes back.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i larb these bois
> 
>  
> 
> pls leave a comment and yELL


	14. Torture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony can deal with being kidnapped, and he can definitely deal with torture. Being an Avenger wasn't easy on him, especially as the least-trained non-super god.
> 
> That doesn't mean Peter can deal with it. It doesn't mean Tony isn't desperate to help the kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so. This part up here is super important, so read up real close like.
> 
> THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS THE GRAPHIC TORTURE, FORCE-FEEDING, WATERBOARDING AND BLOOD LETTING OF A CHILD.
> 
> If you can't or don't want to read it, I'd advise skipping this (and the next two chapters which will be related to this) chapter entirely. It's not pretty.

Tony’s mind is a haze when the first sounds reach him through some seemingly impenetrable fog, muffled and incredibly hard to decipher. There’s a slight sensation of shuffling fabric across his face when he frowns, and together with how fuzzy his thoughts still are, he deduces that he’s probably been kidnapped.

 

Probably.

 

Tony sighs. “I’m not going to give you anything. So you might as well just, y’know, just _not_.” There’s no reply to his jibe, which means whoever’s got him is probably a professional. He hears a few footsteps, then-

 

The blindfold is ripped off. He lets out some noise against the sudden, invasive bright lights, and recoils slightly. It takes a long time for his eyes to readjust to the suddenness off the change, and when it does, he can see three things straight off the bat.

 

One — there’s a surgery table in the center of the room he’s in. It’s too bright.

Two — His arms and legs are bound. It’s rope, which is good, but it’s knotted well and way too tight for him to wriggle out of it. Feels like the rope is looped around some chains attached to the wall. He’s not moving from where he is, then.

Three — They haven’t patted him down. He still has the phone from Rogers on him, so if it gets _really_ hairy he can always call _them_ , assholery be damned.

 

He blinks slowly.

 

“Hello, Mr. Stark.” The voice over the intercoms is loud, grating. Tony instantly dislikes the guy. He sounds too formal to be an assassin, but too comfortable to be a politician’s underling or something. His eyes narrow.

“Hello, asshole. How’s it going?” There’s a _tsk_ noise over the intercom. It hurts his ears (they’re still sensitive towards noise).

“All things considered, today has been… good. I caught _two_ assets today. You both have proven slippery in the past.” Tony frowns again. _Two?_

“Both…?” He’s going to regret that, he knows already.

“Your intern — the Spider-Man, apparently.” Tony’s blood goes cold. No. No, _nonononono_. No. “He put up quite the fight.”

 

 _God_ , no.

“You better not have hurt a _hair_ on his head, or I swear to god I’m going to rip you to _shreds_.”

A laugh. “Relax, Mr. Stark. He is unharmed — for now. And I must say, it’s very amusing to see you get so ruffled at just a mention.” He scowls, anger sparking up in his chest like a fire.

“You sonuvabitch-”

 

He’s not angry. He’s beyond angry, beyond pissed, beyond furious, to a level where he’s pretty sure the only thing still tethering his soul to his body is the sheer rage flowing through him.  

 

There’s a slight twitch of motion in the corner of his field of view, and- the door groans as it opens. Tony watches, horrified, as two people drag something through the door  — _Peter_. His body is limp, and there’s a hell of a shiner marking the left side of his face. He’s still wearing the suit, but the mask is in one of the guy’s hands. Tony watches, muted horror replacing the blood in his veins, as the mask is chucked down by him, only just out of his reach.

 

The ropes bite into his wrists, but he still contorts himself so he can grab the mask. Peter’s expression is slack, even as he is dragged forward. Tony labels the ugly sensation in his chest as desperation, and watches the faces of the people dragging Peter in.

 

Indifferent. They don’t care.

 

There are webs binding the kid’s wrists together, tight enough that the fabric of his suit is visibly creased around it. A thin trail of blood streams down from the corner of his mouth, dripping to the floor slowly. He feels sick. Given the lack of visible trauma to the torso? Tony is willing to bet that Peter bit his tongue on the way down.

 

Peter’s back is slammed into the surface of the surgery table in the center of the room, and he goes cold. Everything seems to slow while his brain struggles to comprehend what he’s seeing. He watches in horror as the webs are cut and straps are tightened around Peter’s limbs. They’re tight to the point where Tony is certain not even Peter, for all his enhanced strength, could escape easily. Especially not if-

 

Tony gulps, suddenly nauseous. They’re going to torture the kid right in front of him.

 

They’re going to really torture a kid. _His_ kid.

“Listen, I don’t care if you have a vendetta against me, _leave him out of it_. He’s done nothing wrong to you. Leave him alone. Hurt me, not him.” Peter’s still unconscious; strapped to the operating table. He looks so _small_. His urge to protect is crawling sky high right now, and he can’t move his hands to reassure the kid.

 

His chest is burning. Peter isn’t moving.

 

They haven’t even done anything yet, and he already wants to trade places with the kid. He _has_ to. Peter’s suffered enough; more than he should have had to. And he’s about to suffer more, and… and for what?

 

“Oh, Mr. Stark. Where’s the fun in that?”

 

The rage twists into fear. He doesn’t know what these guys can do; what they will do. He doesn’t know what they’re gonna do to Peter.

 

The guys leave the room as silently as they had entered, leaving Tony with Peter’s unconscious body.

“Kid?”

 

He doesn’t get a response. Whatever drugs they’ve used on the kid, they have to be strong. But he can just see the steady rises and falls of Peter’s chest from where he’s sat, and that’s enough. Maybe it won’t be so bad. The fact that they’ve left without hurting Peter immediately is promising.

 

Tony shifts a little where he’s sat, head still foggy, and eventually slips back unconscious.

 

He should have known that this wasn’t going to be it.

 

* * *

 

It’s a harsh impact to his face that wakes him up the next day. His head is a whole lot clearer than it was, which is good, but they’re still captive, they’ve still got Peter, and he’s just been punched. In the face.

 

He reels backward a little. He can already feel blood seeping into his mouth from his now-split lip. Tony stares forward harshly.

 

The guy — not either of the two who dragged Peter in yesterday — looks pleased at his _sharp arrival_ back to reality.

“Hello, Mr. Stark.” It’s the intercom guy! Tony huffs sharply; shakes his head a little, and looks up into the guy’s eyes. They’re sharp. Calculating. Cruel.

“Oh, you decided to grace us with your presence. How polite of you. Wanna trade numbers?” He immediately regrets the snark, if only because he’s only going to make the current situation worse.

 

Another punch. Tony’s head snaps back from the force. He can feel the black eye that’s gonna come from that already. Well, at least this guy doesn’t seem to have any problem with violence. At least he’s not being sneaky about it.

 

A minor shifting in the corner of his vision catches his attention. _Peter_.

“Kid, you’re gonna be fine. You hear me? We’re gonna be _fine_. Just stay _calm_ , alright? We’ll be f- _mmph_.” The guy leans over him, and drags some cloth over his mouth while he’s there. Tony narrows his eyes. He can’t reassure Peter anymore. The fucker just took away the only thing he can do for the kid right now.

 

God, the _kid_. He’s suffered Toomes and PTSD, enough injuries to kill everyone else, and now… and now this.

“Mr. Stark? Mr. Stark, are you-?” Peter’s voice is sluggish. He’s definitely not quite out of whatever drug haze he’s under right now. Tony makes a noise under his gag, something he hopes is reassuring to the kid.

“Mr. Stark- are you okay?” Under the haze, Tony can hear raw concern in Peter’s voice. So painfully unguarded right now.

“How touching, Spider-Man. You really care for him?” Tony wants to be sick.

 

The guy walks to the side of the surgery table, where a tray of surgical equipment and other assorted things lie, and a lead block falls into his chest. He can’t tell what all of the equipment is from here, but there’s a hell of a lot around the room; to the point where there’s some large trough-looking thing next to him. The guy picks up a syringe. The almost reverent way he’s looking at the sharp tip of the syringe strikes a primal kind of fear into Tony’s chest, the kind he’s learned to associate as the gut-churning feeling he always gets whenever Peter is in danger. Tony watches Peter’s arms jerk in the restraints.

 

His heart sinks, and any trace of hope he had about this experience being minimalist on the injury front disappears. Peter knows something is wrong.

 

The guy takes a step forward towards Peter, syringe still in hand, and flicks the glass tauntingly. Tony’s eyes sting a little. He can’t see whatever is in the syringe. Can’t tell what it could be; what to expect from the injection. His mind is racing at 100mph, half formed thoughts whirling through his head, but they all come back to the same looped mantra.

 

No. He can’t… _Peter_ ….

 

“Who are you? What do you want?” Peter’s voice is so, _so_ scared. He’s trying to put on a brave front, Tony can tell, but the drugs are still in the kid’s system and the way his voice wavers is so, _so_ noticeable.

“I want him to suffer. I want you both to suffer.” The guy’s voice is soft, gentle, even, like he’s explaining to a child why they had to be punished. Tony jerks his restraints how he can in his outrage, shouting noises through the gag. Peter does _not_ deserve to suffer for _helping people_.

“What…?” The kid is as confused as he is. Tony watches the guy’s expression twitch into a frown, and then back to normal.

“Superhumans can feel pain too, can they not? It’s time for the world to learn that their heroes can fall.” Peter’s head slams backwards into the top of the surgery table as he struggles, and it makes Tony’s stomach turn. The kid’s arms and legs are strapped down, what little he’s doing right now to escape could be simply described as _writhing_.

 

The guy steps forward, syringe held delicately between two fingers. It’s only when he tightens the straps, effectively immobilising Peter’s entire left arm, that the kid stops twitching. The sleeve of the suit is in the way of the needle, and the guy scoffs at himself like he’s an idiot. Tony? Tony agrees wholeheartedly, the guy _is_ an idiot. Whenever Rhodey and Vision come to save them, this guy is _fucked_.

 

Tony watches the guy produce a scalpel from his medical bag. It’s easily the sharpest thing he’s seen in a long while, and he nearly starts screaming through the gag when their captor takes it to the surface of Peter’s arm, around the shoulder region. The guy sighs.

“Mr. Stark, if you don’t be quiet I’m more likely to slip and sever something that should not be severed. He would bleed out. You would lose him, and it would be your own fault.”

 

Tony stops instantly. It _would_ be his fault. His eyes aren’t covered, he can see clearly what’s happening. The guy isn’t about to stab the kid. He can’t make that happen before they get saved. He stays quiet as the guy presses down lightly on the fabric, easily parting the fibres of the suit. As soon as he’s cut a ring around the circumference of Peter’s arm, he tugs the sleeve off from beneath the cutting, exposing Peter’s arm to sight. It’s pale, and Tony can almost see the muscles twitching and shaking as the kid struggles to escape his restraints.

 

It doesn’t work.

 

Tony watches the guy regard the crook of Peter’s elbow with professional precision, syringe hovering just above what has to be a vein.

“Try not to move, Spider. You’ll only make it work faster.”

“Make _what_ \- get away from me. Get away from me, right now, please-!” Tony has to close his eyes at the raw panic in Peter’s voice, and then-

 

The guy’s hand moves downwards suddenly, and he knows the syringe is being depressed into the kid. He shouts through the gag.

 

_What are you doing to him? Leave my kid alone!_

 

_Hurt me, not him. Please._

 

“I bet you’re wondering what that was?” The syringe is pulled out of Peter’s arm and laid gently on the tray beside the operating table.

“Go away. Leave me _alone_.” Peter’s tone is breathless, like he’s only just staving off a panic attack. Tony isn’t being nearly as successful.

“That was _air_ , Mr. Stark. You’d think it harmless, would you not?”

 

Tony knows that isn’t the case. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen to the kid. It’s just air, right? How bad can it be-?

 

“Air, when in the veins, is not the crucial element it is in cellular respiration. In the veins, doctors call unwanted air bubbles a _veinous air embolism_. Sounds threatening, doesn’t it?”

He hears Peter open his mouth. “I don’t-” He sounds woozy.

The guy keeps speaking as if Peter has never opened his mouth. “These veinous air embolisms… they aren’t pretty. They can cause many health issues. What I want to happen?” The guy chuckles lightly. It sets every single nerve in Tony’s body on edge.

 

“I want it to cause a myocardial infarction. And when it does, I’m going to resuscitate you. Does that sound okay?” The false levity in his tone almost makes Tony miss the poison in his words, beneath the honey.

 

 _Myocardial infarction_. That’s a heart attack. This guy just injected _Peter_ with _air_ to induce a _heart attack_. And then resuscitate him.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed the defibrillator by now, Mr. Stark.” _No_. Horrified, Tony looks down from the table, and at the-

 

He wasn’t lying. There’s a defibrillator at the ready. Tony finds he can’t suck in a breath anymore, and it’s not because of the gag. Heart attacks are painful. Being resuscitated is _agonising_. Peter’s gonna go through both…

 

...with no anaesthetic.

 

 _Oh, god_.

 

Time drags by, second by second. The guy is hovering at Peter’s side, defibrillator at hand. _Waiting_. Tony doesn’t stop rambling reassurances at the kid, even though they’re little more than garbled noises.

 

And then, it happens.

 

“Mr. Stark? My chest feels funny.” Peter’s voice is tight. Distant. Tony’s stomach leaps into his throat at the tone, because that’s exactly the pain the kid would’ve going through if… if… Tony pulls hard at his restraints; hard enough to make his shoulders ache. He’s not sat on his ass anymore but on his knees, desperately trying to reach forward. It’s no use. His hands are stuck behind him, bound together and then to the walls.

“What does it feel like? Please, do tell.”

 

He hears Peter gasp, and the noise that follows it is both distressed and surprised.

“ _I can’t breathe_.”

“Come on, Spider-Man. What does it feel like? Don’t make me do it again.” The guy’s tone, for the first time, drops from honeyed to sharp and cold, and guessing from Peter's intake of breath, he’s scared too.

“Tight. S’mthing’s… crushing me.” Tony blinks. This feels a little similar to the building footage. Peter being crushed. Alone, with nobody helping him. _Oh, god_. This is a kick while the kid is down. PTSD on PTSD-level trauma events.

“Where?”

“I can’t- _left_.” Peter’s voice is breathless now, and the sporadic tugging of his arms against his restraints grows louder.

“Good. Tell me. Have you ever felt electricity run through you?”

 

Peter doesn’t verbally respond this time but gasps instead. The noise sounds hurt. Tony drags himself forward with a yell and falls forward instantly, but still gets back up to do it again because the _fucker_ is going to electrocute his kid _back to life_.

 

 _Peter’s heart has to stop before the guy saves him_.

 

“Mr. Stark- Mr. Stark…” Peter’s voice trails off, and he doesn’t speak again. Tony yanks at his chains, yell muffled by the gag. No. No. No no no no no.

 

 _Peter’s last fucking words were his name_.

 

“Well, this is going to be… he is an enhanced, yes? Four hundred volts should start his heart again.” Tony doesn’t know the standard measurement for a defibrillation. Never wants to, either. But he knows what a small electric shock of about 230-odd volts feels like (painful, _really_ painful) and… Peter’s gonna get a shock two times as strong.

 

His breaths don’t come even anymore.

 

“Charging…” Tony hears he whine of electricity powering up over the sound of his own yelling. No, this _cannot_ happen, he _will not_ allow it-

“Clear.”

 

The crack of electricity surging is deafening. Tony, even from his vantage point on the floor, can see Peter’s spine arch clear off the table, fists clenched at the shock.

 

The scream is what gets him.

 

It’s loud, and it echoes off the walls hauntingly. His chest feels like someone is stood on it, maybe even jumping. It hurts to listen to the sound. Some part of him is dying at the noise. He’s never liked the sound of children wailing — it’s always roused some deep urge to protect out of him. This time…? He can’t move. He can’t even _speak_. Tony just has to listen as Peter screams.

 

Before he finally goes quiet, Peter’s voice breaks and cuts out.

 

By the end of it, there are tears streaming down Tony’s face, too. The guy looks satisfied with his work.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Almost like a parting gift, the guy takes Tony’s gag off before he leaves. Tony scowls at the guy the entire time, face red and eyes wet as he undoes the knot at the back and drops the gag.

 

He doesn’t dare speak. He can’t bring that on Peter again.

“Food will be brought to you. I suggest you eat it.”

 

He leaves.

 

Tony breathes out loudly. His wrists sting from how hard he’d been thrashing around. He tries to take in a breath, but it catches in his throat, and soon enough Tony is struggling to keep his sobs quiet.

 

The kid just _died_. His heart stopped.

 

He just watched his kid get _murdered_ , and then brought back again.

“Peter. Peter, buddy. Kid. Kid. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” Speaking doesn’t help. Speaking would have been helpful while the kid was getting _tortured_. All Tony has to show from this is the fact that he just watched Peter die in front of him and the pain at the corners of his mouth from where the fabric had been digging into his flesh.

 

“I’m so sorry, kid. I’m sorry. Buddy, I’m sorry.”

 

He doesn’t expect a response.

 

He doesn’t get one.

 

Tony looks at the syringe, balanced so precariously on the edge of the tray of medical equipment, and he wants to throw up.

 

When unconsciousness claims him, Peter hasn’t moved since having his heart restarted.

 

* * *

 

Tony wakes up to quiet thudding outside the door of their cell. For a second, he hopes. He desperately hopes that it’s Rhodey, here to save Peter and him.

 

That second passes when he intercom guy walks in, platter of food in hand. There’s two of them. One plate.

 

Peter has to have it. He’s suffering the brunt of this. He needs to eat more than Tony does.

“Mr. Stark.” He sounds almost surprised that Tony is awake. Tony looks at the guy’s placid expression, so different from the malicious one he wore yesterday torturing Peter. It’s hard to reconcile the two as being one in the same.

“Asshole.” He replies in greeting. “You got a name? I can’t keep calling you ‘the guy’.”

“I am a doctor.”

“I think the BBC will sue.” He responds tiredly.

 

And god, he is tired. Emotionally exhausted from yesterday. He’d watched Peter die in his dreams too. Just without the resuscitation. The kid stirs a little, but doesn’t wake.

 

“Names are inconsequential, Mr. Stark. They will not change what happens.” The doctor looks down at Peter, at what could be a peacefully sleeping face. Tony watches him set the tray down.

 

He watches the doctor’s face turn from peaceful to manic as he sticks his thumb on the site of yesterday’s injection and presses down.

 

 _Hard_.

“Rise and shine, Spider.” Are the smooth words that follow after Peter yells himself awake, tears already flowing.

“Eat.”

“I-I can’t. Mr. Stark, I _can’t_. I can’t.”

“That’s fine.” Tony looks up, shocked. Since when did the fucker who killed his kid — he shudders — accept that Peter couldn’t do something.

“I had anticipated this. Mr. Stark, this food is yours.” The doctor nudges the tray over to him, just under his hands. If he manoeuvres himself the right way, he can _just about_ pick up the- _whatever_ that is.

 

Wait.

 

This isn’t right.

 

Tony watches with a growing sense of dread as the doctor leans over to the pile of supplies and produces a tube. It’s only slightly less thick than his index finger, and he feels queasy just looking at it. It’s followed up by what could be a funnel.

 

Then comes the jar of disgusting looking blended food.

 

He puts two and two together faster than he would like to.

 

 _No_.

“Kid, you _need_ to eat this. You _have_ to.” The kid’s crying now, quietly but it’s still there. Tony’s pretty sure he is too, because _what kind of sick fuck does this to a kid_? Who tortures a kid who literally does nothing more than help other people?

“I _can’t_ , Mr. Stark.” Peter’s voice is thick, slurred.

“ _Please_ , kid, he’s gonna- he’s gonna- I know you feel like you’re gonna be sick, but you _have to trust me_. You need to eat, because what’s gonna happen if you don’t is gonna be so, so much worse.”

 

Peter’s crying outright now, completely unguarded and loudly. Tony wants to tear the fucker stood in front of him apart. He _needs_ to see the life drain out of his eyes. That son of a bitch has tortured his kid. Tony can’t let him live, not for that.

 

The guy’s hooking the tube and funnel together.

 

If that piece of regurgitated crap puts that tube anywhere _near_ the kid’s face…

 

 _Too late_.

“You should have listened.” Tony’s fully aware of how his breathing enters a pace that is definitely unhealthy, but he can already see what’s about to happen. He _wishes_ against it, _prays_ to deities he doesn’t believe in-

 

“Mr. Stark? Mr. Stark?! _Mr_ . _St-_ ”

Tony only just has time to slam his eyes shut and hastily try to cover his ears before the screaming starts again.

 

His hands can’t reach his ears. The _sounds_ …

 

It’s the kid’s wailing that makes every part of him die. The pure, unadulterated _pain_ in every single scream that tears from Peter’s throat; the way his cries sound muffled under the tube-

 

Tony can’t help it.

 

He tilts his head to the side and spits out the vomit that’s accumulated in his mouth.

 

“ _I’m sorry. Kid, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry_.” Tony whispers, over and over, closing his eyes so hard he thinks they could break for how much they burn.

 

And god, they burn. He _burns_. Peter’s screams are ingrained into the back of his head, playing on loop even long after the kid has gone silent again (asides from the quiet sniffling that seems to be ever-present now).

 

The platter of food lies in front of him, untouched. His appetite is gone. He supposed this is what shell shock is like. His entire body is cold, and his eyes are wide and glassy. He can’t see past the same few moments Peter had just been subjected to.

 

Over and over. They repeat in Tony’s head.

 

The doctor moves in the corner of his vision, tube in hand once again. Tony blinks hazily, more tears tears down his cheeks. He can see his own blood on his hands, and crescent shape grooves where his nails had torn through tender flesh. He looks at the doctor again.

 

The jar of shit is empty.

 

There’s blood dripping from the edge of the tube.

“It’s a good thing you heal fast, Spider.” The guy says, off-hand. Tony wants to vomit again. There’s nothing left in him _to_ vomit, but the sentiment remains all the same.

 

Peter doesn’t respond to the statement, and neither does Tony.

 

He can’t move still. His wrists are sticky with blood. The tube lies on the medical tray, discarded next to the syringe. Tony wonders if that’s where all the doc’s toys are gonna go.

“I’ll give you some time, Mr. Stark. Maybe you should eat _your_ food.”

 

The guy fucks off out of the room. Slowly, Tony looks down at the plate of food, and starts to eat. He’s numb. His body is numb, his mind is numb, and all he can even consider thinking about is _Peter_.

 

Peter, who is a kid. Peter, who just tries to help. Peter, who’s already been scarred enough. Peter, who’s been tortured and force-fed within a single day, most likely with worse to come.

 

It’s sheer determination that stops Tony from puking up everything he just ate.

 

“You’re gonna be okay, kid. Help’s gonna come soon. They’re gonna save you, okay? They’re gonna save you. I’ll stay with you the whole time, definitely. I’ll be there for you, okay?” The whispering doesn’t really help. All he can hear is Peter pleading his name before the screaming started, how the kid probably had that wide-eyes, terrified expression on his face.

 

“You can tell me when you have nightmares about this, y’know? It’s just like Afghanistan was for me. It’s fine to remember it and be scared. I love you, kid. Just hang on for me, okay?”

 

_Just like Afghanistan._

 

Tony keeps whispering quiet things until his voice gives out. Peter doesn’t respond to him.

 

He keeps sniffling, but he doesn’t speak.

 

Tony can’t blame him.

 

* * *

 

The next few days don’t get any better.

 

* * *

 

The first time, he doesn’t even realise anything is wrong. He isn’t punched awake. There’s no screaming.

 

There is, however, a continuous _drip-drip-dripping_ from maybe a faucet or something. Tony blinks his eyes open hazily, ignoring the death taste in his mouth and the memory of _his kid getting fucking tortured instead of him._

 

The floor isn’t the same shade it was when he closed his eyes.

 

It’s red.

 

Blood?

 

 _Peter_.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing to my kid-”

 

He hears a stifled gasp from the surgery table. It’s teary, broken.

 

Broken.

 

Tony pauses, thinks. Peter… this could very well break the kid for good. Nobody is able to hold up against this type of torture. He could be present at the second Peter stops holding on.

 

He wouldn’t blame the kid for letting go at this point. He would have.

 

When Tony snaps out of his thoughts, it’s to a keening wail. His eyes water almost immediately in response-

 

Tony meets the guy’s eye. He’s standing above Peter, hand hovering over-

 

The scalpel is missing from the equipment tray. The blood on the floor…

 

“Don’t worry, Mr. Stark, I’m not going to kill him.” Tony has to stop himself from launching himself at the guy. It would only tear his arms out of socket. It wouldn’t save Peter. It'd just make it worse.

“I’m just seeing how deep I can cut. He heals very quickly.”

 

He hears another noise from Peter. The kid’s almost animalistic now, whining and trying desperately to free himself from something he simply can’t escape from.

 

The blood continues to join the puddle on the floor, dripping down in a haunting pattern.

 

He doesn’t know how long it takes for the guy to get bored of watching Peter’s body put itself back together, but eventually he does.

 

He casts a distasteful look at the blood on the floor before disappearing from view.

 

“Stay with me, Pete. Don’t leave me now. I’m gonna get us out of here.”

 

Tony thumbs the battered flip phone in his pocket, but doesn’t hesitate to turn on the power or send the contact listed as Rogers a message.

 

He knows Rogers will free them, distasteful or not. He just can’t let Peter suffer like this any longer. Not if he has the power to help the kid out.

 

 _Help me_.

  
  
  


He doesn’t know if he expects a response or not. He just hopes.

 

_Drip._

 

_Drip._

 

 

_Drip._

 

He just hopes.

 

* * *

 

Tony wakes up to the trough next to him being filled with water, and it’s one big shove back to Afghanistan for him. All those vivid memories of being under the water, clutching at his car battery, begging to just _die already_ -

 

Peter’s off the table, and for the first time since being brought in, Tony can see the kid’s body.

 

He nearly bursts into tears immediately.

 

There are small cuts, razor thin incisions and deeper wounds littering the vast majority of his arms and legs. Some still ooze blood. Others have coagulated and stuck to the fabric of the Spider-Man suit.

 

Peter’s stood (hardly) in a puddle of his own blood right now. Tony swallows down his vomit.

 

There’s blood on the majority of the lower half of Peter’s lower face, stemming from the nose downwards. The kid’s muscles are quivering already. Tony can see tears trailing down his face, and the way his hair is plastered to his head by sweat. This- this is worse than even the lowest point of Peter’s PTSD attacks. This is a whole new level of trauma for the kid. Worse than Afghanistan, New York and Sokovia combined. Easily.

“I’m gonna kill you.” Peter cracks open an eye — bloodshot, glassy, _hollow_ — at his words. For a single nauseating second, he’s pretty sure the kid is asking Tony to just kill him, but then he realises it’s desperation.

 

The kid is begging Tony to kill the guy.

 

“I’m sure you will, Mr. Stark.” Peter is forced to his knees in front of the trough. Tony blinks, throat suddenly lined with wet clay. His mouth isn’t covered, but he can’t speak. He can’t move to help Peter. Peter reaches a trembling arm out to him, but he can’t reciprocate. He only hopes his eyes convey all his sorrow.

“You should probably clean that blood off your face before bacteria start growing on it.” The doctor’s tone is light. Jovial.

 

Tony watches, sickened, as Peter’s eyes grow wide with his realisation.

“I can fix that.”

 

Malicious fingers wrap around Peter’s curls,the curls that the kid loves to have ruffled _so much_ , and the kid’s head is shoved beneath the surface of the water.  

 

Tony wishes the doctor could just die. He wishes he could stand up and kill the man himself, with his bare hands.

 

Peter’s arms thrash, and he tries to push himself out of the water. Bubbles rise to the surface of the trough. The guy doesn’t let up.

 

Peter’s arms are much too weak for him to save himself.

 

A harsh tug of Peter’s hair has his head back out of the water. The blood on his face is gone, but the kid’s gasping and coughing up murky water now.

 

All Tony can see is Afghanistan. He sees Peter as himself, sputtering and choking. Except he can’t do anything for Peter, and Peter can’t escape this.

 

_Rhodey, Vision. Please. Please save him._

 

When the doctor is done with _this_ round of torture, he finally cuts Peter some slack. The kid isn’t tied back up to the surgery table.

 

Instead, he’s left to slump to the side, against the wall. Tony can see water dripping from the kid’s eyelashes, his curls, his nose.

“Peter. Peter. C’mere. C’mon, kid.”

 

Peter spits out a glob of water and opens an eye.

 

Tony recoils. There are so many emotions for him to read in that single glance. It would hurt less if someone were to just… stab him in the chest until he died.

 

Tony shuffles as close to Peter as his restraints allow him.

 

It’s not close enough.

 

* * *

 

Peter’s approaching his breaking point now. Tony can’t tell how long they’ve been stuck in the room (there are no windows. It could have been a few days, it could have been weeks), but at some point in the night, Peter had started mumbling. Thrashing about.

 

Coughing harsh, rattling coughs.

 

Dirty water leads to pneumonia after waterboarding.

 

Peter coughs harshly again.

“Hey, Peter. We’re gonna be okay. Someone’s gonna come and help us, alright? They’re gonna save you.”

“Mis’er Stark.” Peter’s voice is hoarse, quiet. It’s the first time Tony’s heard it since the tube incident. He has to swallow back how bad he wants to cry.

“Kid, it’s okay. Save your energy.” Peter hacks again, spitting the mucus onto the floor.  Tony winces.

“L’ve… you…” The kid’s breathless. Exhausted.

“I love you too, kid. Now stay with me.” He can’t reach out to take the kid’s hand; offer support. Instead, he has to watch Peter try to curl up tighter, hiding blue lips and a pale face.

 

The room goes quiet, asides from Peter’s laboured breathing.

 

Which is what makes him so surprised when the doctor opens the door nearly hastily. The loud clang scares Peter awake, fevered brown eyes searching for something Tony doesn’t quite think is in the room.

 

The doctor holds a syringe in his hand again, but this time, the contents are a bright amber colour. Tony swallows his concrete-saliva at the sight of it.

 

 _This is it_.

 

He’s gonna watch his kid die, isn’t he…?

 

No. He can’t let that happen. Tony clears his throat, and allows his determination to fill him with more energy than he’s had in a while.

“Don’t! Don’t touch him. Hurt me. Hurt me instead, just- just leave him out of this.” Peter looks at him oddly. His eyes don’t look all _there_.

“You hear that, Spider? He wants to suffer for you.”

“Kid, please. _Please_ just let me do this for you. _Please_.” He begs.

 

He never begs.

 

“He isn’t enhanced like you are. Mr. Stark is much more likely to break than you are. Do you want that on your conscience?” The mind play makes Tony want to scream.

 

_And if you died… I feel like that’s on me._

 

_I don’t want that on my conscience._

 

“ _No_.” Peter’s voice is gravelly now. Low from fever and drowning and screaming.

Tony reels back, heart pounding. “Listen, kid, you need to let me do this. You _need_ to! I can’t watch you suffer!”

“And I can’t watch you die.” Peter whispers. His eyes are closed.

 

Tony lets the tears flow down his face.

 

_He’s gonna lose Peter._

 

The guy walks closer to Peter, amber-coloured syringe in hand. The kid’s so weak already from everything he’s had to go through.

 

This will kill him.

“Kid. Please, _please_. Don’t do this. I can’t watch you die for me. I can’t watch you _die_. You’re so young, you’ve got so much left to do- _please_ , just let me do this one for you. Let me take this one.”

 

Peter doesn’t respond verbally. He turns his head; looks Tony in the eyes.

 

_I’m sorry._

 

Tony’s eyes widen and his heart breaks anew. No. He can’t.

 

He won’t.

 

 _Peter_ …

 

Peter closes his eyes as the doctor walks closer, syringe in hand.

 

It’s like watching a movie. Tony knows something terrible is about to happen; something that will scar him for life.

 

He can’t look away. It feels like a betrayal to Peter’s gaze, still on him.

 

The doctor is stood in front of Peter now.

 

Tony doesn’t hear the footsteps approaching before the wall in front of him crumbles in a red mist.

“Tony!” The voice is lower than he remembers, and a helluva lot more scared than he can ever recall it being.

“...Steve?” He mumbles. The doctor-

 

The doctor-!

 

“Kill the doctor! Please, before he can-”

 

A bullet. Just the one.

 

The guy collapses to the floor in front of Peter. Undoubtedly dead. Tony could dance.

 

The kid’s hardly breathing.

 

Tony watches, in shock, as Steve approaches him from beyond the dusty reaches of the collapsed wall. The Captain America suit is hardly any different, asides from the lack of a star on his chest.

 

Tony doesn’t care about that. He cares about _Peter_.

“Get me out of here. Get me out of here, _now_.” He can feel Steve’s fingers working loose the knot at his wrists, and hisses when they brush the raw wounds circling his wrists.

“Tony…”

“Save it, Rogers, I have a priority. We can talk later, I just-” The ropes drop.

 

There are people surrounding Peter’s broken form. He knows who they are. He knows they won’t hurt the kid.

 

Tony lurches forward, falls into the blood puddle, and keeps crawling ‘til he can finally reach Peter.

“Stark…” The mumble is shocked, probably at his desperation to get to the kid. When Tony scoops his arms around the kid — he’s so _light_ , he shouldn’t be so light —, the floodgates open. Everything he’s repressed since this whole thing started-

A hand reaches down to them. Tony curls around the kid protectively.

“Don’t touch him-! You’re hurting him, get away. Leave him alone-!” He can feel the heat radiating from Peter as he tightens the hug. It’s off putting. But the kid stirs a little, and Peter opens an eye. Tony gives a watery smile. His lip splits back open and flood his mouth with the taste of iron, but he smiles.

 

Peter doesn’t. Peter looks at him, eyes confused, then at Tony’s shirt, then back up again.

“...Ben…?” There’s a brick firmly wedged in his throat, and it’s called _grief_.

“I’m so sorry, Peter.” It comes out as nothing more than a whisper. Peter doesn’t respond at all this time. His eyes are closed.

 

For a second, Tony fears the worst. He fears that he’s lost Peter in his arms. It’s worse than watching the kid’s heart get stopped.

 

But then Peter huffs a quiet breath in his arms.

“Get us out of here.” He mumbles.

“Tony, let me carry him. You’re hurt too, you know.” Rogers’ voice is calm, but not uncaring. He doesn’t loosen his grip on Peter, though. He can feel the kid’s bones prominently.

“I’ve let him down so much already. I can’t do it again.” His legs wobble as he tries to stand. He just _can’t._ He knows Rogers is right — he knows he’ll have to hand the kid over.

 

It feels like part of him disappears with Peter. Natasha helps him stand up again — he hasn’t done it in a long while. His legs are shaky, but he doesn’t know if it’s from lack of movement or lack of food. He forces himself to match Rogers’ pace though. He isn’t letting Peter out of his sight again.

 

The hallways of the place are littered with bodies, both unconscious and dead. Tony can’t feel bad for any of them. He just worries about Peter. Even as they get onto the Quinjet — “I have to take him back to the compound.” | “Tony…” | “ _No_ , I don’t care. He’s coming home with me.” —, he stays by Peter’s side.

 

He’s as pale as the sheets they have in the medbay. Tony just sits there for the entire flight as they keep Peter stable, warring with himself.

 

The transfer between Quinjet and compound isn’t easy.

 

Namely, Tony’s legs aren’t letting him stand anymore, and he refuses to let Peter leave his sight.

 

Helen and her med team sprint towards the jet within seconds, and Tony is trapped within a crushing hug.

“ _Oh_ , Tony. We thought you were…”

 

Her attention must be stolen by Peter, as her hands raise to her mouth and her eyes widen.

“ _Peter_ …”

Tony looks her in the eyes.

 

“Save him. Please.” She nods at him with the same severity his words had carried, and within seconds she’s got her team transferring Peter from the medbay bed to a stretched and inside the compound.

 

Tony finds that breathing is incredibly difficult without being able to see Peter next to him, alive and breathing.

“Come on, Tony. Let’s get you inside.”

 

Rogers picks him up. Tony doesn’t fight back.

 

The walk to the compound is silent, but deafening. Especially when Rogers takes him to the abandoned section of the compound where the Avengers’ rooms once were. Steve sets him down gently on a bed. It’s not his own. He just stares at his hands; at Peter’s blood spread and dried though all the lines and creases.

“Tony. You need to shower before you see the kid.” Tony looks up to meet Rogers’ eyes. Rogers doesn’t know what it is to watch his kid be tortured in front of him.

 

He doesn’t understand.

 

Vacantly, Tony showers off anyway. He watches coppery-brown water vanish down the drain. He scrubs blood out from under his fingernails.

 

It was on his face, too. Peter’s blood. From when he had wiped away his tears, and forgotten about the blood on his hands. The gaping wounds on his wrists hurt like bitches as soap suds clean them out.

 

The sound of water hitting the shower floor reminds him of Peter’s head in the water. The splashing.

 

His own hair, wet, once he steps out of the shower send him into a panic attack about Peter’s curls after having been waterboarded.

 

He takes a shuddering breath. He shaves himself to his normal goatee, smooth and refined again, and takes the clothes so generously laid out on the bed.

 

His legs still tremble. He still feels sick. Peter’s screams echo in his head.

 

He makes his way to the medical wing as quickly as he can. As soon as he’s allowed, he’s at Peter's beside.

 

There’s no blood under the kid’s nails anymore. This whole thing could just be a dream within a few weeks time, with no physical marks left to prove it ever happened.

 

It’s gonna leave its mental scars. It already has.

“You’re okay, Peter. You’re okay. We got you out.”

 

“You’re gonna be fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly this was super tough to write but. worth it. the next two chapters will tie in to this one before i tie up the arc and return to my normal linear canon.
> 
> all my whumptober fics are connected, but these three are kinda like AUs?? they exist, but not alongside the rest of them. probably super confusing, but it just be like that dkjsaf


	15. Manhandling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Torture like what the kid went through... that leaves its scars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not rly tough with the manhandling, just a Concerned Dad Tony khfc

Tony comes to quietly, the last vestiges of nausea still running through his veins. The surface his head rests on is plush. It takes a few seconds for enough information to bleed back into his brain for him to recognise why he’s there.

 

He wishes the knowledge had never returned to him.

 

Peter being tortured in front of him. The desperate noises and attempts to escape his restraints. The bruises and cuts on his face and body. The _torture._

 

He’s next to Peter’s hospital bed still. He hasn’t really moved very much since the Rogues saved them from that asshole doctor. Pepper and Rhodey and everyone else have been trying to get him to leave the room almost frantically.

 

Tony would just look up at them, meet their eyes, and continue to stare wordlessly at them until they get the message.

 

He’s not leaving. He couldn’t stay with the kid _there_ , he’s gonna do it here. He doesn’t really want to move, either.

 

Tony looks at Peter’s face. His expression is lax; still marred by fading bruises but mostly peaceful. It’s a welcome change from the usual, scared expression Peter’s been wearing the whole time.

 

Tony grabs the kid’s hand.

 

Peter’s healing has been dragging by, increasingly slowly. With the windows in the kid’s hospital room, Tony’s been able to count the passing days this time. Three.

 

It’s been three days since Peter was first admitted to hospital, and whenever the kid has woken up since, he’s hardly been lucid. Mumbling about Ben and blood, and fears. _God_ , hearing those hushed mumbles from a fractured mind had killed him.

 

And thus, the worry of Peter’s _body_ healing was buried under the worry that his _mind_ might not.

“Mis’er Stark.” Comes the quiet voice from next to him, childlike in tone and very hushed.

 

Tony makes sure he reacts slowly. This isn’t the first time Peter’s been conscious since, and if he’s not careful, he’s gonna scare the kid. He looks up to meet Peter’s eyes.

“Hey, kid. How are you?” A small part of him rears up at the clarity in Peter’s eyes, but the rest of him is just crushed by the hollow _fear_ in his baby brown’s. Tony just keeps his movements steady and gentle as he rubs Peter’s knuckles gently. The kid looks slightly reassured by the motion, so he doesn’t stop.

“‘m… I’m good.” Peter shifts his weight slightly so he’s on his side; his grip on Tony’s hand increases fractionally. Tony breathes a sigh of relief.

“Can you remember what happened?”

 

Peter blinks at him slightly, but Tony can see how his eyes sort of… go all _distant_.

“Hey. It’s okay, Pete. Calm down, I got you.” Peter closes his eyes again and rolls onto his side. Tony keeps a hold on the kid’s hand.

 

He can’t leave Peter to be alone.

“It’s okay, Pete.”

 

The kid doesn’t respond.

 

Tony sighs. He doesn’t expect Peter to be at the top of his game right now. Hell, he’d get it if Peter opted to just… not respond to anything right now. Tony gets it. That’s probably what he would have done. The fact that Peter is even recovering at the rate he is…

 

His injuries have healed up substantially, and the kid has (albeit very reluctantly) picked at his food over the past few days…

“Kid, you wanna ditch this place? I can take you to your room, you can watch a movie.” Tony doesn’t really expect a response.

 

Which is why he’s so surprised when he gets one.

 

Peter rolls over, eyes wide and curious. It’s similar to the wide-eyed, amazed expression he used to wear all the time.

“Yeah. Yeah. Can we do that?”

“Definitely. FRIDAY, just tell Helen where we’re going, okay?”

_‘I will, Boss. It’s good to see you back on your feet, Peter.’_

Peter looks up; gives a small, shy smile.

“Thanks, FRIDAY.” Tony’s heart aches at the cautiousness Peter demonstrates when he swings his legs over the side of the bed, standing up shakily.

 

Last time the kid had stood, he’d been gripped in a fever dream and adamant that he had been captured again. It can’t bring back good memories. Tony steps towards the kid, and misses the very slight tensing of his muscles.

“Alright, kid. Hold on.” Tony makes a move to scoop the kid up into his arms-

 

And Peter takes a step back, eyes wide. His stance is defensive, and he looks like he’s suddenly deaged by at least five years, curls shielding some of his face from view. Tony’s hands drop to his side at the same time his nausea climbs back into his chest.

“ _Shit-_ I’m sorry, Peter. Sorry. _Fuck_.”

 

Tony steps back, throat suddenly clogged. _Jesus_. The kid just spent (Helen said they’d been gone for five days, five days of extensive beatings and torture methods) time being tortured within an inch of his life. Tony should have anticipated the kid wouldn’t be okay, he should have known he wouldn’t be good, he should never have brought Peter with him that day, he-

 

Should never have dragged Peter into his life.

 

“Hey, Mr. Stark. I’m okay. I’m okay.” Peter’s voice trembles, and Tony wants to scream.

 

_No, you’re not okay. You were tortured. You’re not okay._

 

Tony steps forward again, more slowly this time, with both arms outstretched. Peter walks into them and wraps his — too skinny — arms around Tony in a hug. Tony returns it without hesitating. He can feel the kid sniffling into his chest — god, he’s so _small_ — and burrowing further into his warmth. Tony lets him.

“I’m gonna pick you up now Pete, okay?” Peter takes a step backwards from him and looks him dead in the eyes. Tony holds his arms open once again.

“Okay.”

When he picks Peter up, he does it gently. God knows the kid had been manhandled enough.

 

He doesn’t care if he garners weird looks from everyone he passes, his kid needs comforting and he’s gonna make sure he feels safe. Gently, he rests Peter on his bed — the kid immediately sinks into the huge pile of blankets that exist exclusively on top of his bed — and opens the curtains to let the sunlight in.

 

The downside of protecting Peter’s senses is that it can make the kid feel trapped. Tony isn’t risking that. Peter snuggles under his blankets, and Tony could almost be fooled into thinking the kid never went through _that_ , but Peter’s eyes are still semi-vacant and still incredibly cautious.

“Star Wars? Star Trek?” He holds up his hands in confusion. Peter looks at him and gives a small, but still noticeably amused huff.

“Star Trek: Beyond would be cool, Mr. Stark.” Tony sits down on the bed next to Peter — the kid clings to his side almost instantly — and shuffled around until he’s comfortable.

“FRIDAY, could you put on Star Trek: Beyond? Kid’s orders.”

 _‘You’re getting soft, boss.’_ Her tone is still fond despite her words. Peter giggles quietly. The opening logos start playing alongside quiet music and the _beeps_ that he’s come to associate with the USS Enterprise being on-screen.

 

Peter seems entranced as the camera slowly pans to reveal the ship in its full glory. On instinct, he goes to ruffle the kid’s hair.

 

Mistake.

 

Peter recoils harshly, and Tony can tell by the way his eyes widen and his pupils dilate that he’s not in the room anymore.

 

_The waterboarding…_

 

Tony actually wants to slap himself.

 

Peter’s breaths are short and choppy, and when accompanied by the quiet whimpering noises he’s making, Tony’s heart breaks anew.

“Fuck, kid. I- I didn’t mean to- shit, I should go-” He makes to stand up before-

“Don’t go!” The cry is panicked, and it makes him slam to a halt where he stands.

 

Peter’s breathing is harsh still, but he’s got a strong grip around Tony’s wrist. Tony doesn’t pull away like he wants so desperately to do.

“Don’t leave me.” And the kid- there are tears trailing down his cheeks. His eyes are glassy and hurt. Tony is hasty to sit back down and bring the kid into a hug.

“Don’t leave me alone. Please.”

 

The movie is still playing in the background, but all Tony can pay attention to is how the kid’s breaths wrack his frame.

 

“Oh, kid. I’m not gonna leave you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only one more chapter continuing this angst then yall are free
> 
>  
> 
> feel free to YELL IN THE COMMENTS


	16. Bedridden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath is never pretty.
> 
> Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posting to ao3 before tunglr bc my school has tunglr blocked. but not ao3. w a c k

The first thing he becomes aware of when he starts coming to is that he’s pretty warm. It’s nice, comforting. Not at all like the cell-

 

The _cell_.

 

Tony blinks slowly, memories returning to him. The torture. Peter’s definitely worse than before PTSD. Watching the kid being beaten within an inch of his life and heal, torn flesh stitching itself back together before the cycle started again. Tony inhales quietly. He’d been watching movies with the kid…

 

_The kid._

 

Tony becomes aware of the kid pressed to his chest, head to his heart. He frowns. The kid must have had another night terror. He knows when Peter starts listening to his heartbeat that the kid needs some kind of grounding, lest he gets too caught up in his anxieties.

 

No, that’s not what he’s paying attention to. What he’s paying attention to is the heat. The kid is on _fire_. Tony opens his eyes fully, alarmed, to try and observe the kid.

 

He’s pale once again, cheeks flushed red, hair plastered to his forehead. _Shit_.

“Peter? Pete, buddy, can you open your eyes for me?” He doesn’t dare touch the kid when he’s like this. Peter’s fevered, and he’s scared. Tony isn’t going to risk triggering the kid’s PTSD. So instead, he watches as muscles in Peter’s eyelids twitch, then open. He’s clearly dazed, for one, but he seems to recognise Tony. The kid reaches out to him, and shaky fingers briefly touch his chest (right where the arc reactor was. He feels a twang of pain burn on the spot) before pulling back.

“Ben…?” Peter’s voice is teary. Like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

 

“I thought…” Peter trails off, eyes closing again. He’s not asleep, Tony can tell. There are tears starting to pool at the corners of Peter’s eyes; trailing down his nose slowly. Tony’s heart aches for the kid. The world’s been so, so cruel to him.

 

Tony remembers what he can about Peter’s Uncle. They’d been best friends ever since Peter’s parents had died and he’d moved in with him and May. Ben had been there for Pete throughout every other hard point in his life. Then the spider bite came and passed, and the distance between Peter and Ben had started to grow. Tony can’t imagine how hard it must have been for Peter to keep such a secret from his pseudo-father.

 

Then Ben got shot and died, despite Peter’s attempts to save him. According to May, he hadn’t really been the same since.

 

The fact that it was his _chest_ that Peter’s hand had ghosted over… Given his fever, it’s more than likely that the kid’s trapped in the past. Trying to stop him from bleeding out from the fatal wound that took his Uncle.

 

His heart shatters in his chest. The least he can do for the kid right now is just play along, maybe help him lay a few ghosts to rest. God knows he’ll do it if it can help take some of the weight of the world off the kid’s shoulders.

“Yeah, kiddo. It’s me.” Peter’s breath hitches as he speaks, facial expressions briefly contorting into a grimace, like he’s trying to hold back floods of tears. He likely is.

“I’m sorry. It was my fault.” Tony watches the kid press his palms to his eyes, visibly distraught, and breathes out with a false serenity. On the inside, he’s in turmoil. He shouldn’t play pretend for the kid, because it’ll just hurt him later. But looking into those deeply wounded, hazy brown eyes…

 

He can’t deny the kid a chance to speak to his Uncle. Even if Ben isn’t here.

“It wasn’t your fault, Pete. It was just… it just _was_.” He doesn’t know if this is how Ben would have spoken to the kid. But guessing from the way Peter’s eyes — clouded with tears and bloodshot — open again and meet his own, wounded but listening…

“I couldn’t save you.”

“Not everyone can be saved, kid. When it’s a person’s time, they have to go.” He’s not particularly sure if he follows that philosophy, but he remembers May telling him (in one of their recently scheduled co-parent meetings) that Ben was the type of person to follow things like that.

“I’m-” Peter stops, pauses.

 

And then he starts coughing harshly. And doesn’t stop. Tony places a hand between Peter’s shoulder blades and rubs soothingly, hoping to stop the fit.

 

The pneumonia. It’s possible the kid’s immune system never properly flushed the infection out.

“FRIDAY, get Helen. Ask her to come here.” He mumbles quietly, but not so quietly that the AI can’t hear his voice.

 _‘On it right now. I’ll ask her to be gentle with him.’_ He appreciates her foresight on the matter.

“Thanks, FRI.”

 

Tony can’t help it. Looking at Peter, feeling the wheezing coughs rattling through him… he’s back in the cell, arms bound, watching the kid spit out dirty water before having his head shoved back under again.

“I can’t breathe. Ben, I can’t-” Peter tucks his head into Tony’s chest again. He’s still kinda numb when he wraps his arms around the kid to keep him close. It’s better than being close, but unable to reach out for him like he had been.

“I’ve got you. You’re fine. It’s just a bad memory, kiddo. It’ll go away soon. Just listen to my heart.” Peter’s coughs slow down and his breaths even out a little; the kid’s grip releases slightly.

“My chest hurts.” Peter mumbles. Tony can’t help but be sympathetic.

“I know, Pete. Helen’s gonna fix you.” That, apparently, was the wrong thing to say, as Peter freezes up in his arms.

“We’re- we’re stuck. Helen- not Helen, the bad doctor, the bad doctor, don’t let him come near me _please_. He’s gonna hurt me.” Tony sucks in a breath like he’s been punched in the stomach. Just because he hadn’t heard any mentions of the doctor in Peter’s previous panic attacks…

“I’ve got you, Pete. We’re gonna be fine, okay? You’re gonna be fine.”

 

These mental scars of Peter’s… Tony can’t make himself forget how the kid was willing to die for him. Nearly did, actually. How easily that guy had slipped into both of their heads using the other. Tony shuffles forwards and tugs the kid into a light hug. He can feel Peter’s fingers ghosting over the still-healing wounds on his wrists from the ropes. They’re trembling slightly.

“‘m sorry I couldn’t protect you, Ben.” He slumps a little. He’s not upset that Peter still thinks he’s Ben, cause the kid’s half out of his mind from fever, but… it stings.

“It’s okay, kid. You did so, so good. You kept me _safe_ , Peter.”

“I’m _scared._  I can’t stop _seeing_ him, Mr. Stark.” Okay, now it’s a little concerning how the kid’s memory is flickering through things. It’s probably normal, but he’s a little unnerved.

He takes a shuddering breath. “That’s okay. It’s okay for you to be scared of what happened to you. I would be too. I still have nightmares about Afghanistan, and that was over a decade ago now, kid. It’s okay for you to be scared. It’s normal.”

 

Peter opens his mouth to respond, and quickly hides himself when the door opens. Helen steps in quietly.

“Hi, Peter. How are you?”

 

The kid doesn’t respond. He’s not shaking, but he’s frozen to where he is. Helen seems to understand though, as she just stands at the edge of the bed.

“‘m scared, Ben.” Helen frowns at him. Tony tries to mouth back ‘ _he’s confused_ ’. She seems to get _that_ memo, too.

“It’s okay, kiddo. Helen’s just here to check up on you, okay? She’s gonna give you some medicine, it’ll make you feel better.” Peter’s eyes are wide and frightened. Kinda like a bushbaby.

“Okay. Okay.” Helen walks in front of the kid and crouches down, eyes kind.

“Hi, Peter. My name is Doctor Helen Cho. I’m just gonna check you up and give you some medicine, okay?” Peter leans further into his chest. His behaviour is so vulnerable and child-like that it makes his chest hurt again.

“Okay.” The kid whispers. He responds to Helen’s questions (albeit reluctantly), and when asked to, he swallows the antibiotic he’s given. She leaves soon after (it had just been a resurfacing of the infection; it hadn’t been flushed out properly), and Peter finally relaxes a little. His arms are shaking a little. Kid’s gotta be hungry.

 

“You want any food?”

“No. No food. I’m not hungry.” Peter sniffs heavily, and Tony’s stomach crawls into his throat. He’d gotten so caught up in the more standard torture method that he’d forgot the kid had been forcibly fed whatever blended food he’d been given. He understands the kid’s reluctance. He wouldn’t want to eat if he’d been force fed via nasogastric tube, either.

 

He tucks up next to the kid. Peter responds in kind. He can still feel that the kid’s uncomfortable, panicked, even. That’s fine.

“We can get Rogers to bring you anything you want, kid. Anything.” Peter stills, deep in thought.

“Um… You got any junk food?”

“‘Course. What do you want- actually, screw that. FRIDAY, can you ask Rogers to raid the junk food stash? Tell him to bring as much as he can carry.” Peter giggles quietly, probably imagining Captain America bringing up loads of junk food.

“PSA Captain America would disagree.” Peter mumbles quietly. He’s still way too warm to be healthy, but the kid’s delirium seems to be fading now. But still-

“PSA Captain _what_?”

“He did PSA videos- they show them at like, every state school.” Tony knows that a his eyes are probably just _radiating_ his mischievous intent right now, but he doesn’t care to stop it. He is _never_ gonna let Rogers live that down. The Captain did goddamn PSA videos for kids…? There- that is _so_ much blackmail material.

 _‘He’s on his way up now, Boss.’_ Tony nods.

He moves to stand. “Okay, cool. Pete, you just stay here, I’m gonna-” A loose grip circles his wrist before he can fully stand.

“Don’t go. Please.” Peter’s eyes are wide, but that’s not what stops him. It’s the fear, and loneliness around the edges. The kid had been alone (in the sense of physical contact) during his torture. Of course he’d be scared.

 

Tony frowns. He _was_ just gonna collect the food from Steve to avoid triggering an panic episode, but…

“Okay, Underoos. The Capsicle’s gonna bring your junk in here.”

“Thanks, Mis’er Stark.” He settles down again. Peter’s clinginess — it’s kind of reassuring to Tony. After being separated from him and watching the kid be tortured, if it weren’t for Peter’s very apparent separation anxiety, Tony would be at the kid’s side all the time anyways.

 

He can’t let him get hurt like _that_ ever again.

“Tony? Can I come in?”

He looks at Peter. Peter nods.

“Sure thing, Rogers.”

 

Peter was right to laugh earlier. Coupled with the semi-permanent stern look on his face, seeing Rogers holding so many brightly coloured food brands nearly makes him choke on his own saliva. Rogers doesn’t look offended, though, just curious.

“You have a kid?” He asks. Peter’s zoned out, mind wandering around. Tony stares Rogers in the eyes.

“Yep.” He pops the ' _p'_. “And no, he’s not mine biologically, I’m co-parenting with his Aunt. I’m lucky that she’s sharing him.” Peter leans into him, apparently satisfied with his analogy.

 

Steve just looks confused.

“I’ll talk about it more later. Thanks for bringing the food up. I owe you one.”

“It’s fine, Tony. Hope you feel better soon, kid.”

“Thanks. And- Captain?” Steve pauses; looks Peter in the eyes.

 

Tony can feel the way Peter tenses up, like he’s barely containing himself.

“So. You got detention-”

“Oh my god.” Rogers covers his face with a single hand before leaving the room. Peter’s chest hitches with his quiet laughter.

 

It’s a beautiful sound compared to the last week of noises. Tony lets Peter snuggle into his side, slowly picking at the junk food sprawled out across the bed as FRIDAY starts a movie binge.

 

He knows the kid’s still terrified under all that bravado, but…

 

It’s by no means perfect, but it’s a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i decided to just show the aftermath of peter's torture. all the time. congrats guys, you're stuck with references until day 31 itself!!!


	17. Drugged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's enjoying life post-torture. Just doing his Spider-thing around the place, helping people out, avoiding triggers for his PTSD.
> 
> And then it all goes to shit. Naturally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i posted 18 and 17 in the wrong order. Fixed it noW!

Peter sprints along the rooftops, the ground flying from beneath him. Free sprinting has always been fun. It’s even more fun now he doesn’t have asthma trying to kill him on top of everything else.

 

He leaps between two buildings, taking his landing into a roll and springing back up again before resuming his sprint.

 

It’s a normal patrol so far. Nothing particularly bizarre or weird has happened, nothing that could explain the weird, tense feeling in his chest. It’s not his Spidey-sense being weird, not this time. It’s more like what the books he used to read would call a ‘gut feeling’. He just _feels_ like something’s gonna go wrong. That’s actually why he’s taken this patrol so late and risked incurring May’s wrath. He just _knows_.

 

Peter launches himself off the roof of the apartment complex he’s on top of, onto the surface of one of the _taller_ buildings. Taller meaning _skyscraper_. His sprint shifts to the wall-crawling the media knows him for, with the occasional leap to gain momentum as he scales the side of the building.

 

It’s only when he’s at the peak of the building that he slows down; takes a breather. He’s not that tired, weirdly enough.

 

He supposed it’s the pent up energy from being kept up at the compound for so long. Tony has insisted he stay up there for the _long while_ it took for his body to finally recover from the-

 

His mind stutters and comes to a halt. Whenever he thinks about the _torture_ , his head slows down. It’s like being stuck in mud, only the mud is in his head and it’s also PTSD.

 

He remembers it. He remembers it all. Some details are fuzzier than others, but he remembers. But remembering isn’t what’s scary — what’s scary is the cold indifference he feels in regards to the memories. It’s probably suppression, or just the fact that he spent about a week following the incident on cuddle time (or as Tony would call it, _intensive therapy_ ) with just about everyone available. He knows he couldn’t have done anything. He knows the guy was insane. He’s sorta _mostly_ dealt with it.

 

Hasn’t stopped him from being weary about certain things now, and it definitely hasn’t stopped the nightmares that like to show up every few days. Electricity, needles, large bodies of water… they’ve kind of moved up the fear list. And doctors. He can’t forget about _those_ — although that fear had really been present since he’d first became Spider-Man —, excluding Helen and the other staff at the compound. He’s familiar with them. He knows they won’t hurt him.

 

He rolls his shoulders slightly.

 

He knows he’d been semi-delirious when his fever had crawled back up again. He _knows_ he called Tony Ben. He couldn’t help it. Part of him knew the two men weren’t one in the same, but he kept blurting the name out anyways. _Stupid pneumonia_.

 

He’d actually been touched by the fact that not only did Tony play along, but he _tried_. Peter can’t begin to understand what it must have been like for Tony, having watched him get tortured and suffer the aftermath, but…

 

 _Pseudo-dad_. That’s basically what Mr. Stark is, right?

 

Peter shakes the cobwebs out of his brain and stretches his arms upwards. He’s lucky he’s even allowed to patrol again so soon. He can’t waste his time.

 

He throws his body off the edge of the building and drops like a rock. The wind slows his fall, only by a minuscule amount, but he can still feel it. Peter sighs happily. It feels good to be so in tune with his senses again. It’s like being connected to the world again after a long period alone in a vacuum.

 

Peter looks across to a nearby building from his skydive-fall, and quickly aims a web to it. The force of it is harsh but reassuring as his body sharply arcs back upwards, and then…

 

He’s weightless. Suspended in the air; tied to the Earth by nothing but gravity… this is what _living_ is for him. Or maybe that’s just the adrenaline. Either way.

 

Peter whoops as he falls again, and starts his swing-by of New York City. Times Square is as busy as ever, with cars at a semi-standstill and people rushing around. The neon lights against the blue-turning-black sky is pretty captivating. The sounds form a deafening cacophony to his ears, but he keeps going anyways. Karen always activates part of the protocols protecting his senses when his surroundings reach more than about a hundred decibels anyway. All in all, it’s a nice night. Winter is definitely approaching — he can feel it in his bones. He can feel it in the way the winds have turned harsh and bitter, and in the way people have started to layer up beneath him. Not quite cold enough for snow, but… it’s getting there.

 

Peter eventually comes to a halt in his swinging on top of the Empire State Building. The wind nearly pulls him off the building a few times, but it’s the best vantage point he’s got in the city (that he’s comfortable on, at least) and he can see everything around him.

 

Yeesh, the world is huge. It’s kinda intimidating from a height. He’s perched in a squat, fingertips touching the ground between his feet, just… watching.

_‘Peter.’_

He shrieks, and nearly jumps back off the building. “ _Holy-_! Karen?!”

 _‘Sorry, Peter. FRIDAY’s detecting a disturbance at the compound.’_ Peter frowns. Karen sounds worried, so it’s gotta be bad, right?

“Disturbance as in what? A spat with the Rogues? Blew up the toaster again?”

 _‘Some kind of break in. FRIDAY is trying to ascertain if it’s a kidnapping-’_ He flinches. _‘-or a robbery, but whoever it is has disabled her audio recordings.’_

 

He makes his mind up.

“Karen, could you do the route guidance thingy?”

 _‘Doing it now.’_ A luminous blue line illuminates the suit’s interface, and he jumps off the building. Falling isn’t as relaxing this time — he’s got a mission now. He’s gotta protect the compound.

“Karen, can you put May on? I need to tell her where I am.”

 

In lieu of a response, the dial tone starts ringing. Peter releases one web and fires off another, waits for it to connect to the building and cut off before pitching his weight forward again.

“Peter? Peter, where are you?” Her voice isn’t as angry as he thought it’d be, but it’s definitely more upset than he’d predicted. Not a good start. Peter rushes to reassure her.

“May, I’m fine. I’m safe, okay?” Another new web, and a faster swing.

“Where are you? You’re meant to be at _home_.”

“There’s a problem up at the compound. I can’t-” Drop onto the roof of a car. Wait until his web cartridge is full again. Jump- swing.

“Peter, there are security measures up at the compound for things like these. It’s fine.” His chest briefly tightens in frustration before smoothing out again.

“FRIDAY had to contact me through Karen, May. If she’s doing that… I can’t let anyone up there get hurt, not after what they’ve done for me.”

“Peter…”

“I can’t let d- Mr. Stark get hurt. I _can’t_.” The compound’s lights are beginning to come into sight, just off the edge of his vision. Peter veers his web to the side and starts swinging directly towards the huge glass windows by the common room.

 

He definitely did not nearly just call Mr. Stark _dad._ It’s one thing to think about it in his head, it’s another thing entirely to nearly say it out loud. His cheeks are definitely red right now.

 

“Okay. Okay. Please keep yourself safe, baby.” May’s voice is resigned, but loving. Peter hates having to do this, but… he can’t let Mr. Stark suffer.

 

The glass windows of the compound are growing larger in his view. He braces himself, and swings feet-first into the windows.

 

As expected, the glass shatters easily under the force of his body swinging into it. Tiny shards rain down around him as he bounces back up from his roll. He’s just lucky Mr. Stark reinforced the suit to be resistant to traumas like that.

“FRIDAY?!” He looks around wildly. The common room is empty. The feelings of desperation in his chest grows hotter as he stares at nothing.

_‘In the labs. Mr. Stark’s vitals appear to be unstable.’_

 

Shit.

 

Peter breaks into a sprint down the halls. He can see Rogers and a few other Rogues stealthily making their way towards what must be the labs as well. He’s grateful that they’re trying to help, but…

“Kid-”

 

Instead of sprinting around Rogers like any normal person would, Peter just swings up onto the ceiling and continues his run towards the labs. He hears them call after him. He doesn’t stop.

 

He _can’t_ stop.

 

The lights in the lab are off, save for a small patch in the corner. Peter knows he couldn’t swing through this glass — it’s reinforced to a point where he’d probably break an ankle before getting anywhere.

 

He tugs off a glove and rests his hand on the scanner. Of course, it lets him in — Mr. Stark had added his print not long after Homecoming. Peter can hear the approaching footsteps of the Rogues, but pays it no mind. He’s got a dad-figure to save.

 

There’s just the one guy, holding a gun. There’s a discarded syringe on the workshop table.

 

His throat tightens, and for the first time since coming out of that cell, he’s frozen to the spot. He’s just lucky the guy hasn’t seen him yet.

 

His heart is racing. It’s ridiculous, how something as insignificant as a syringe has him terrified, but…

 

Ugh.

 

Peter shakes his head (and ignores how suddenly light-headed he is). He’s got to help Mr. Stark.

“Hey!”

 

Both Tony and the guy look over to him. The guy looks pissed. Mr. Stark-

 

Is apparently high. His pupils don’t look right, even from where Peter is, and he’s muttering to nothing.

 

_At least the syringe wasn’t air again._

 

The guy raises his gun. Peter raises his arm, fingers hovering over the web shooter’s button.

 

He pushes down mere _seconds_ before the guy pulls the trigger.

 

He ducks.

 

The window behind him shatters.

 

He lunges forwards, and tackles the guy to the floor (it’s his fault for defending his face, not his very vulnerable mid-section). Peter doesn’t shy away from using a little more strength than normal to get the gun away (guns are very bad), and doesn’t hesitate to web the guy to the floor. Completely. As in, not a single part of his body isn’t webbed to the floor.

 

Might be a little over dramatic, but he’s already lost one father figure to gun violence. He can’t go through that again.

 

He crouches down next to Tony (and hears the Rogues step in. He waves an arm at the vaguely, shooing them).

“Mr. Stark? Are you okay?” Tony sluggishly turns his head to look Peter in the eyes, and he blinks a few times.

“Kid?” Peter nods (maybe a little too enthusiastically…) and tears the cloth binding Tony’s wrists together.

 

He’s tackled into a hug. Eyes wide, Peter returns it, but not without being incredibly confused. Whatever drugs Mr. Stark is on right now are weird.

 

Actually-

“Could someone take that syringe to Helen? Dunno what he’s high on, but he’s _high_.” He hears a gentle clatter, and footsteps. Peter nods to himself, arms still wrapped around Mr. Stark.

“You okay?”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.” _What_?

  


_Oooooooh. Right._

 

“We’re not in the cell anymore, Mr. Stark. You got me out. I’m fine, see?” Tony doesn’t let go of him. Peter sighs; stands up (with Mr. Stark in his arms) and shifts his weight around. He could put Mr. Stark on that couch, but given how he’s probably gonna be stuck in his head for a while, it’s probably best he doesn’t move away.

 

Mr. Stark never left him when he was half outta his mind. He’s gonna do the same.

 

He walks towards the couch (the same one he’d woken up on before Mr. Stark started helping him work on his PTSD…?) and gently sets the man down.

 

It’s like he’s in shock. His eyes are wide, face pale, but he doesn’t look like he’s _seeing_.

“Mr. Stark?” Tony looks at him. Blinks.

“Hey kid- you’re like- my _kid_ -" Now, a part of him is honoured — Tony Stark sees _him_ as his _kid_? He’d had suspicions, but…

 

Peter sits down next to him and tucks his knees to his chest. It’s not that he’s scared or anything, he’s just…

 

It’s just…

 

It’s just a little weird to be the one who has to take care of Mr. Stark. It’s odd. Tony keeps mumbling quietly, staring around for things that aren’t there.

 

When Captain America steps back into the room again, Tony flinches. Peter thinks it might be because of the sudden noise, but he can’t help but remember what Mr. Stark told him about Siberia and the fight there.

 

Apparently, the Captain thinks the same thing, as his expression turns downcast. He’s holding out a syringe with a clear liquid in it. Tony’s still next to him, nearly dozing.

 

His mouth goes dry. He’s gonna have to administer the drug.

 

His hands tremble as he takes hold of the syringe delicately, scared of breaking the delicate tube (and maybe of the thing itself). He flicks it to disperse any bubbles.

He takes a breath. “Mr. Stark?” Tony looks at him, eyes still hazy.

“Kid.” He holds up the syringe to gauge Mr. Stark’s reaction — a little flinch. Peter doesn’t think Tony’s reaction has anything to do with the threat it could have to himself.

“I gotta give you this. It’s safe, I promise. No air.”

 

On some level, he appears to understand, because he lifts up his sleeve to expose his underarm. Maybe it’s just the years of response training being an Avenger has lead to — he’s probably had to undergo injections while concussed or high before.

 

Peter’s hands are still shaking when he presses the needle to the tender skin, wincing as the skin breaks. He depresses the plunger. Blood beads up after he pulls the needle out (he nearly throws it away from him).

 

Tony slumps.

 

_Whatthefuck._

 

“Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark? Tony?!” He’s panicking now, he can feel his heartbeat picking up. Tony’s eyes are closed. Peter can hear him breathing slowly, but it doesn’t allay his fears.

 

_Please tell me I didn’t just..._

 

“It was a sedative. Helen figured it’d be best to let him sleep it off.” _Rogers_. Right. It was just a sedative. Mr. Stark- he’s just sleeping right now.

 

Okay. Okay. That’s okay.

 

Even after Rogers leaves, Peter stays, sat next to Tony. He doesn’t want to leave Mr. Stark’s side.

 

Mr. Stark wouldn’t leave his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yoink


	18. Hostage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter-Man  
> Peter-Man  
> Gets held hostage  
> Like an ordinary civilian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> literally as the title says

“I’m telling you, Peter, Star Wars is better than Star Trek! The action scenes-” Peter pushes open the door to Delmar’s as he listens to Ned’s semi-rant, amused. It’s not the first time anyone’s had this argument, and it definitely won’t be the last time _they_ have this argument.

“Have nothing on the prospect of a nonviolent future. I mean, just _imagine-_! Being able to interact with aliens peacefully, furthering ourselves to explore the universe! How don’t you like that?” Peter wants to laugh at Ned’s affronted expression.

MJ looks up from her book (why she brought it on the junk food run, he doesn’t know). “The nerd’s right.”

“Which one?”

“Peter. C’mon. No wars. No massive planet destruction. No slaves or anything. Trek is about progression.” She plucks a bag of sweet off a shelf and feigns disinterest.

Peter laughs victoriously. “Yes!” Ned turns a corner. He’s probably gonna sulk for a while now.

 

It’s kind of weird, having MJ there with him and Ned. Not in an entirely bad way, either. He’s just… it’s been him and Ned for just about as long as he can remember. Having more than just the one friend… it’s nice. Peter plucks a bag off the shelf.

“Whatever. I still prefer Star Wars more.”

Peter shrugs. “Fair enough, man. We all like what we like and all that.” He rounds an aisle and walks towards the counter. He’s still kinda tired after last night’s patrol, and he really wants to just… head back. Eat crappy food, watch crappy movies, and go to sleep. Ned and MJ are still searching for their stuff in the shops (he forgets they don’t know Delmar’s quite like he does).

 

The guy at the counter isn’t Delmar like usual. Peter frowns, but doesn’t speak up about it. His stuff gets bagged. Peter takes it, wordless, and heads back through the aisles to find his friends.

 

He’s so focused that he doesn’t really register the build up of the too-familiar tingling at the back of his head.

 

_Click._

“Don’t move.” The voice is gruff. The speaker is behind him, definitely, and whoever it is isn’t there to make friends. Peter’s eyes widen.

 

There’s a slight pressure at the back of his head. It’s not his spidey-sense.

 

Gun.

 

How the hell didn’t he notice that? Peter sucks in a breath harshly, ignoring how the adrenaline surge rushing through him is making his arms and legs quake a little. That’s good though — anyone seeing him won’t be able to tell it apart from panic.

 

He sees MJ turn the corner and see him, eyes widening in shock before a hand (probably Ned) pulls her back. Good. That’s good. His hearing picks up on a hushed mumble, behind the counter. The guy behind the till must be calling the cops, then. Okay. Now he just has to hold out as long as he can with a guy behind him and a gun to his head.

 

It’s not as scary as he thought it’d be. Maybe his patrolling has desensitised him to this. Who knows?

 

Peter doesn’t make a show of it as his arm is grabbed and he’s pulled away towards the counter again. So it’s just a standard robbery, then. That’s cool. The cops have been called, they’ll be there soon. He just needs to stay quiet and not get shot in the head.

 

He ignores how he can hear Ned and MJ’s panicked whispers. They both know he’s Spider-Man — Ned, for sure. He’s pretty sure MJ’s known since homecoming. He’s sure if he were to swing into a room, in his suit, with her in it… she probably wouldn’t be surprised.

 

“Give me the money, or I put a bullet through his skull.” Peter _barely_ resists the urge to roll his eyes. God, how _cliche_ can someone get? The cashier seems panicked now, and stands to open the till. But still. The poor guy looks like he’s about to pee himself. Peter sighs.

“Don’t-”

 

The barrel of the gun is slammed into the back of his head. Peter’s vision swims. He can hear loud noises (shouts?) in the distance, and the watch on his wrist giving three warning vibrations before it stills again.

 

He remembers a conversation he had a while back, after the torture incident and the subsequent attack on the compound. Mr. Stark gave him that watch as a gift, and as extra security. So if he got hurt, the watch could send out an emergency SOS if his vitals went wonky.

 

Which they just did.

 

So that means…

 

It doesn’t even take five minutes. Peter’s still swaying in the guy’s grip, and he’s pretty sure there’s blood dripping onto his sweater by now, and Ned is still in the corner of his vision looking outright terrified about what’s happened. The cashier is just about to hand over all the money, then-

 

He sound of repulsors meet Peter’s ears, and a glass window — Mr. Stark’ll have to pay for that, he realises with a wince — shatters before an Iron Man suit is in front of him.

 

The guy bricks it, drops the gun, and tries to run.

 

Into the police blockade outside. Peter laughs quietly. His head hurts, like, a lot.

 

Mr. Stark is in front of him. Peter falls into his arms.

“You alright?” He sounds concerned. Peter nods slowly; stands back up. The worst of the concussion will be gone by the time he gets home.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine. Thanks, Mr. Stark.” He’s more worried about the others. He hadn’t even realised the guy was behind him — he hopes he didn’t hurt Ned or MJ.

 

Speaking of-

 

Ned and MJ run out from their position behind an aisle, eyes concerned. Peter just blinks hazily. There’s definitely blood on the back of his head, but the wound should be healed by now. That’s fine.

 

He didn’t think he’d be so unconcerned about being someone’s hostage. Movies always make it seem so much more dramatic.

“Well, you’ve got this one under control?”

Ned nods his head quickly, pulling Peter towards him by the hand. He stumbles. “Yeah. We’ve got him, Mr. Stark.” The Iron Man suit nods its head. Peter wonders if he’s even _there_. His gut says he’s probably controlling the suit remotely from the lab, or he’d be fussing him a lot more.

“We’ll head back to his apartment. Thanks, Mr. Stark.” To his surprise, this time it’s MJ who’s speaking. Her voice — usually so unaffected — seems to be tinged with worry. He’s honoured, really.

 

He ignores Ned’s grip on his hand and MJ’s on his arm. Actually, that’s a lie. He appreciates it a lot. He’s still pretty unsteady on his feet, even if the worst of the damage is clearing up. The armour is looking inquisitively at them. Peter groans internally — he knows he’s gonna have to talk about that next time he sees his pseudo-dad. The teasing will be relentless.

 

The suit nods, then leaves, leaving Peter swaying lightly in the firm grips of MJ and Ned. They mumble aimlessly at him as they take their stuff (the guy let them take it free for their troubles, which is crazy cool) and Peter back towards the apartment.

“There’s blood on your sweater.” Fingers ghost over the injury. Peter winces.

“I know.” They don’t ask about it further. Their grips are gentle as they pull him through the door to his apartment, and they set him down on the couch in the living area. He’s just lucky May is out — she would probably have made him go to hospital. It’s not that bad.

“You okay?” Peter looks up from the blood on his fingers (gross) to Ned. His eyes are still worried.

“What? Yeah, I’m- I’m good. Better. Bit of a headache.” He flops down bonelessly. God, he’s tired.

“You have a concussion.” MJ says. It’s not a question, guessing from her tone. Peter nods a little. She just frowns, and sits down on the limited free space he’s left for her.

“You should probably go to the hospital.” She’s observing him with a critical eye (it’s just as unnerving as ever). Peter sits up so Ned has room to sit down on the couch also, and yawns.

“Nah, it’s fine. I- I heal fast.”

“You can’t go to sleep then. Ned, put on a movie. His aunt will kill me if I let him die.”

“If _we_ let him die, you mean.” Peter huffs. Well, it’s nice to know that they both fear May’s wrath. It’s funny. She’s not _that_ bad-

 

That’s a lie. She’s scarier than most criminals when she’s mad.

 

“Mm.” Ned sits down and turns the TV on for him (he’s seriously sat _basically on the remote_ , he can do it).

He decides to speak up. “Guys, I’m right here.”

 

They look at him, and then back at each other. MJ chucks a blanket over his head and Ned keeps doing what he’s doing.

“Shut up and eat your food.” Well, she has a point. Peter opens whatever bag he’s picked up and starts nibbling slowly on its contents. Whatever it is is sweet. Peter hums, content.

 

He definitely likes having more than one friend. It’s nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm taking these next few nice and easy. give pete a break


	19. Exhaustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He should probably sleep more. Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u gotta catch them z's

“Psst.”

  


“Pssst.”

  


“ _Peter_.”

  


“Parker, get up. The teacher’s gonna notice.”

 

Peter groans when his shoulder is nudged, and blinks awake blearily. Right. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to slowly focus, blurry images clearing into something… school. The equations on his book stare him dead in the face. Peter looks over both shoulders — over one is Ned, looking mildly concerned, and over the other is MJ. He can see her sketchbook in hand — he already knows there’ll be an unflatttering image of him drooling into his book.

 

Speaking of…

 

Peter swiftly wipes the saliva off his cheek and sits up straight again, pen in hand. He can’t really focus on whatever he’s meant to be doing though; his mind keeps slipping away into nothing.

He catches Ned and MJ staring at him — they’re probably just worried, he should thank them for their concern later on — a few more times in the lesson before the bell goes.

 

And the _bell_. It’s always shrill, yeah. But today’s a bad sense day, and it’s like someone’s personally scratching at his brain with a cheese grater. Peter reels in his attempts to get away from the damn thing, nearly falling flat on his face before something catches his arm. The grip isn’t as hesitant as the one Ned usually uses when he’s about to eat the dirt, so-

“You should sleep more, idiot.”

He yawns. “Thanks, MJ.”

 

He notices that Ned and MJ are helping him back to the apartment (again). He knows it isn’t junk food day until tomorrow, so they have no cause to be helping aside from just being nice.

 

His chest goes all warm thinking about it. Having friends is awesome.

 

He’s still tired though. He loses count of how many time he nearly trips over his feet from his exhaustion on the first five minutes of the walk alone. He can hear the two people chattering idly behind him, occasionally trying to get his input — a quiet hum —, but otherwise just focuses on one foot in front of the other. His eyelids keep trying to pull themselves down as he walks.

“Peter, c’mon. You gotta keep your eyes open.” Ned tugs him to the side, and suddenly they’re approaching his apartment. Peter blinks groggily. MJ knocks lightly on the door, but Peter can see her side-eying him. He’s pretty touched that she even cares, but he really shouldn’t worry them so much. They’ve been so _good_ to him, he can’t be a burden like he is now.

 

His eyes have closed again. It’s a relief on his overstretched senses though — his mind slows down the longer they’re closed. Is this what people mean when they say _dead on their feet_?

“Peter? Oh, baby- is he okay…? He’s not hurt, is he?”

“‘m fine.”

“I think he’s just tired, Mrs. Parker. Has he overworked himself patrolling?”

 

Peter watches May blink, surprised. Well, at least now he _knows_ MJ knows. That’s cool. He’s guided in by a gentle hand, and collapses onto the couch without any preamble. His eyes are itchy. Is that normal?

 

He can still hear people talking quietly (maybe in the kitchen)? But he doesn’t open his eyes.

“...he’s been like this all day…?”

“...hardly been conscious at school. Actually had to wake him up in…”

“...kinda worried about him, May. Is he okay…?”

 

Yeah, he’s fine. Just a little too overworked.

 

He lets himself drift for a while.

  


* * *

 

When he briefly comes back to, it’s the result of a nightmare. Not a _really_ bad one, just one disturbing enough to wake him up. There are hands on him.

“Peter, you’re okay. You’re good.”

 

... _Ned?_

 

“Yeah, it’s me. You’re fine.” The voice is worried. He’s gotten too used to hearing a worried tone on Ned. He should fix that.

“O-oh. Yeah, man. Thanks.” He’s slightly breathless. He needs grounding. Everything’s too _everywhere_ , he needs-

 

“ _Oof_ -” A hug, apparently. Ned’s hugging him. Peter leans into the contact; breathes out slowly. _God_ , he’s so _exhausted_.

“He alright?” ... _MJ?_ Why is she still there? Where the hell’s she sleeping? Does she even sleep? She seems like someone who doesn’t need to sleep.  

“Yeah, he’s good.” There’s hands patting his back kinda awkwardly. Peter slumps backwards on the couch, eyes closing once again.

“Cool. He good?”

“I’m fine. Go back to sleep, MJ. Sorry for disturbing you guys.” He rolls onto his side. He can hear a scoff, then-

“You’re not bothering us, Peter.”

 

Well- He begs to differ, but he’s already slipping back into unconsciousness.

 

He can hear quiet mumblings as he drifts off. It’s nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> make sure u don't be a tired person guys


	20. Concussion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were literally just trying to get from Queens to the compound. Give them a break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's beginning to look a lot like
> 
> using my own experiences with concussion as a reference

“Kid! Kid, you okay? _Shit_ , fuck-”

 

_...what?_

 

Peter opens his eyes- eye. Something’s sticking one of them shut. It’s cold, and his fingers come away red when he touches the stinging area above his left eyebrow.

 

Everything is really fuzzy. Like, _really_ fuzzy. He’s pretty sure he’s floating right now. Or maybe someone’s turned his head into string and is having a good time pulling it out.

 

Peter groans quietly and his eye slips shut. He can’t move his other hand. Something’s pressing down on it, though.

“Peter? Kid, come on, you gotta wake up.”

 

He’s _awake_. There’s just something pressing into him. His chest can’t expand properly.

 

Slowly, Peter opens his eye again. It’s still very confusing to his jumbled mind, but the image before him clears up quickly.

 

Leather seats. Glass shards. Warped metal…?

“Hey, that’s good. C’mon kid, nearly there. Can you look at me?”

 

 _Mr. Stark_.

 

Painfully, Peter twists his head to face the direction of the voice. There’s a hand on his face, gently holding his cheek. He leans into the touch — it’s warm. He’s cold. It’s nice.

“Hey, Pete. You good?” Peter hubs quietly. He tenses a little when Mr. Stark’s hand comes up to his hair, then relaxes when he starts rubbing gently.

“Mr. Stark? What’s… my head hurts.” Tony’s looking at him, gaze half-concerned, half-panicked. _What happened?_

“Yeah, kid- some asshat just reversed into us.” The words take a long time to sink in to him. Someone reversed into them. They had been… they were going up to the compound…? In Happy’s car. He’d been talking to Tony about improving his web shooters and web fluid. Then it- it-

 

He can’t remember.

 

“Reversed…” His worry must show on his face, ‘cause Mr. Stark raises his hands up to keep him calm.

“Happy’s out. Nobody’s dead. The worst injuries are yours.” Peter sighs a breath of relief. That’s good. He can heal. If Happy had been hurt like he is… But still. He’s in a crashed car, pinned. Why’s…

“Why are you still in here?” Peter whines when Tony pulls his hand back and makes some gesture at out his open car door.

“Kid. I couldn’t just leave you in here. They needed someone to make sure you were still breathing.” The metal pinning his chest lurches, and Peter gasps. Tony’s hands are on him again, but he’s yelling to the people outside.

“Jesus, guys, be _gentle_! His chest is pinned!”

“Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark. Don’t leave me. Please.” When the metal shifts again, it’s away from his chest. They’re cutting it away. It’s weird. Like TV. But real.

 

He’s probably lucky that his organs aren’t smooshed up right now. His head’s spinning still, but his organs aren’t smooshed. That’s a start. That’s good.

“I won’t leave ya, Underoos. I got you.” Tony’s hand rubs his shoulder. The contact is nice. Reassuring. Peter can feel his panicked heartbeat slowing a little.

 

The metal moves away again. He slumps forward with it. Tony’s hands are on his shoulders, pulling him away from the metal, tugging him gently towards safety-

 

He huffs quietly when his body is freed from the pinning. Tony’s holding him loosely, and-

 

There’s so much noise from the outside. Metal groaning. People clamouring and shouting. Glass crunching and tinkling as it’s disturbed. Fabric on leather. Breaths. Wind. Scratching. What?

“Sensory overload?”

 

All Peter can do is nod. His head’s screwed on sidewards. Thinking hurts, his senses are bludgeoning him. Everything’s _fuzzy_ and he’s losing touch on what he’s gotta do, who he has to save-

 

“I got you.”

 

But he trusts Tony wholeheartedly. So he lets himself be gathered up into a carry, and he lets himself be fussed over. He hardly responds to the questions he’s asked though — his head hurts too bad.

“...just a concussion. Keep an eye on him, Mr. Stark.” Peter leans into his chest. He can hear Mr. Stark’s heartbeat. Fast, strong. Worried? About him. Maybe.

 

His footsteps are smooth and gentle. Up, down. Gentle bounding. With the grace of a ballerina, oddly enough.

“ _Shit_ , boss, is he okay?” Concern, more of it? Happy. He was in the car. Is he hurt? Peter opens his eye. Butterfly bandages above his right eyebrow. They’re nearly matching, hah.

“It’s a concussion. Just gotta keep him awake for now. I said I’d get him to Helen ASAP.”

“That’s good. I sent for another car to be sent down here. FRIDAY’s driving it.”

He feels Tony nod. “Good.”

 

It’s quiet once again. Peter can feel gazes on him.

“You alright, kid?” That’s Happy’s voice. Peter nods slightly; opens his mouth to speak. Closes it. Why are words so hard to find?

“I think he’s a little discombobulated right now, Hap. You saw how hard he hit his head.” He can’t remember. It’s frustrating. He can recall the car journey, and then it just- nothing. He can’t remember.

“Shouldn’t he be in hospital?”

“No doctors. Doctors are bad.” Peter mumbles. Tony starts petting his hair again.

 

He feels Tony make some kind of gesture.

“After… after what happened… the kid doesn’t really like doctors anymore. They’re bad memories.”

 

He hears Happy suck in a breath. Maybe he forgot about the torture?

“Sorry. But- kid. You okay?”

“Head’s all fuzzy.”

 

And his senses are all still on overdrive. He can hear everything. Happy typing. The quiet ruffling of his own hair as Tony plays with it. He can feel the occasional tremble of Tony’s arms around him. He must be struggling. He can taste copper and metal, and he can smell acrid smoke from the crashed car. Too much. Too much.

 

Something covers his ears, blocking out all sound. Peter opens his eyes, questioning, and-

 

Tony gestures for him to calm down. To rest. Peter relaxes his body.

 

And then everything passes in a weird blur. Happy speaks quietly to Tony. They both look at him, worried. Another sleek car pulls up. Happy gets into the driver’s seat, Tony sits in the back next to Peter.

 

Peter slumps over so his head rests on Mr. Stark’s shoulders. He’s tired. Mr. Stark is _safe_. He can let himself rest. Mr. Stark would never let him get hurt.

 

He drifts off to sleep, Mr. Stark still stroking his hair gently and tapping rhythmic patterns into the leather seat.

 

It’s morse?

_I. L. O. V. E. Y. O. U._

 

So slowly, Peter taps back.

_D. A. D. L. O. V. E. Y. O. U._

 

He gets a hair ruffle in response. Peter huffs, content.

 

* * *

 

(He’s pretty sure he feels DUM-E and U swathing him in the lab’s blankets when he gets there, under Tony’s guidance. Peter smiles lazily.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have an endgame now (day 31) and i wanna kill you all with it


	21. Harsh Climate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New York! It's not just cold in winter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love you, reader

Peter coughs harshly, and waves his hand in front of his face to dispel the smoke.

 

A lot of good that’ll do — he’s stood in the center of a burning building. The flames are licking at the walls in a way that tells him this one’s gonna come down before the blaze is put out.

 

Peter licks his too dry lips. They’ve started to crack from the heat. It’s winter, and usually he’s appreciate the warmth, but he’s been singed too many times by the fires now for him to enjoy it anymore.

 

Not to mention the blanket-thick smoke. It’s so hard to breathe. Peter hops over a rising flame, and continues jogging down the hallway.

 

He stops harshly to dodge getting smooshed by falling debris — _it’s not the warehouse, it’s not Toomes. Calm down._ Breathe.

 

(It’s not that easy.)

 

Peter closes his eyes — he has to make a brief sacrifice to hone his hearing. There are still people he has to save.

 

_Fire crackling. Building groaning. Wood splintering and falling somewhere not too far away. Glass shattering. Heat._

 

_A cry._

 

Peter takes off in the direction of the noise. Wooden beams fall in his path, but he just springs over them.

 

The flames lick at his arm. He cries out, but doesn’t stop. Peter coughs harshly, waving in the direction of the smoke to try and clear it out of his vision.

 

It doesn’t work well. He’s starting to get a little lightheaded.

 

Everything hurts.

 

He gets to a door, partially obscured by a fallen _something_. It’s too charred and blackened by the fire to be recognisable.

 

He sticks his hands under it — _burningburningburningblistering_ — and heaves it out of the way. The door opens, slowly.

 

It’s a _kid_. Maybe twelve years old, soot staining their small face.

 

(He’s aware that, being sixteen himself, it’s kinda hypocritical to call them _small._  But they are.)

 

Peter steps forward. Their eyes widen in surprise. He gives a little wave at the kid before scooping them up into his arms and charging towards the window in their (apartment?) room.

“Spidey, wait-!” Peter cradles the kid close as he leaps out of the window.

 

He shoots a strand of web so it attaches to the top of the window frame, and tightens his grip. They stop falling a few feet off the ground (his back slams into the very uncomfortably hard exterior of the building) before letting himself drop. The kid’s shaking a little.

“Sorry, lil’ man. Gotta go!” The kid looks bewildered at him, and so do the paramedics who rush over.

 

Peter looks down at himself.

 

Burns and ashes. His forearms and legs have suffered the brunt of the burning. His suit’s more gray and black than it is red and blue.

 

Whatever. Can’t stop.

 

Peter uses his web to pull himself back through that kid’s window. There’s others in the building still. The screams from the massive crowd outside haven’t stopped yet.

 

Peter coughs instantly. The air outside- now he thinks about it, it had been cool. Relieving. He could breathe.

 

He can’t now.

 

_Make it stop._

 

_Have to help._

 

Not important. Peter runs through the doorway again and back into the corridor, sticking to the walls instead of the floor where necessary. The air is so hot now that he can hardly breathe, like it’s burning the insides of his lungs. Probably is, to be honest.

 

He swings into a lobby-ish area. The floor’s marble here. Comfortably solid beneath his feet.

 

_Not the warehouse not the warehouse not the warehouse-_

 

More noises. Not building noises, not fire-

 

People noises.

 

Peter stumbles (his legs aren’t listening anymore) to where the last cries are coming from. He hurts. Everywhere on his lower legs is burning. Not literally, but _ow._

 

It’s another kid. Younger.

 

He can’t let them die.

 

_(He can’t breathe.)_

 

He rushes to the exit in the lobby. The glass doors are broken, but he can get the kid out of there.

 

And he does.

 

He can’t tell if there’s anyone else in the building. He’s trying to hear things, past the building, past the roaring flames, into the distance-

 

Something high pitched…? It’s quiet.

 

He stumbles forwards in his attempt to get to the noise and falls over (why aren’t his legs moving, he’s not drunk, why’s his head swimming).

 

He rolls onto stomach and pulls off his mask. It’s cool. He sighs, content.

 

How hasn’t he noticed how tired he is?

 

Whatever, it’s cool.

 

Peter closes his eyes and tilts his head so his cheek rests on the marble.

 

* * *

 

This wasn’t how Tony wanted his day to go.

 

First, he had to deliver a meeting to the SI board of directors about tech upgrades. That went okay. Then he had to work with Ross about the Accords again — he never told Ross about how Rogers saved he and Peter from that doctor. He never told anyone. He owes Rogers that much.

 

And _Peter._

 

He’d intended on having the kid up at the compound, maybe drop a few hints about tech upgrades to the Iron Spider suit. He really wants to give the suit to Peter for his seventeenth birthday.

 

And then Karen’s SOS came in.

 

Tony flies towards the blazing building — _fuck_ , how long has that been burning for — and drops to the ground. He can see crowds of parents holding their children close, grips tight like they’re scared their kid could just disappear.

 

Burning building. Everyone’s out. Spider-Man isn’t on scene.

 

_His kid might disappear if he’s still in the building._

 

Tony is forced to enter the building through a shattered window — the main entrance has been blocked off by debris.

 

As expected, there’s little more in the room he’s in than burning wood and soot. He swiftly moves through into the hallways — nothing.

 

Peter had to navigate this treacherous environment in his low-armour suit. _Shit._

 

He’ll start from the bottom of the building. The smoke should be the thinnest there. Peter knows that, he would have gotten himself there.

 

He’s scared to think of what he’ll find if Peter’s on any of the higher floors.

 

So he drops through one of many areas where the floor has caved in and starts his search.

“Kid?”

 

His voice is quiet compared to the roaring of the flames tearing this building apart. He tries again, but louder.

“Kid?!”

 

He walks through this hallway — so much fire, oh god what if Peter’s hurt? Or buried again?

 

The marble flooring tells him he’s in a lobby. There are flames nearly everywhere here, and the smoke is so thick he can hardly see a foot in front of him.

“Kid?!” He steps forward again. There’s so much orange and red that he nearly skips the more solid, scorched looking colour on the floor.

 

_Oh, no._

 

Tony steps forward, heart in his throat. Peter’s lying on the floor, on his stomach, unmoving. Burns cover the majority of his arms and legs.

 

His mask is off, and his mop of curls are splayed on the floor.

 

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck._

 

He rolls Peter onto his back. The kid’s lips are blue but his cheeks are rosy — hypoxia, heatstroke — and his eyes are gaunt. Oxygen deprivation. Peter’s curls are plastered to his head by sweat.

 

He’s not-

He’s not breathing.

 

Shit, fuck, _fuck-_ the imaginary swear jar needs to be emptied.

 

Tony picks Peter up, ignoring how the kid is boneless in his arms, and picks up the mask that was discarded on the floor.

“C’mon, Pete, c’mon, stay with me. You gotta breathe, kid.”

 

He doesn’t take a door, or a window. He just blasts his way through a semi-collapsed wall with his repulsors and flies as fast as he can towards Stark Tower. The compound with Helen would be better, but he doesn’t have the time. He has to get Peter to safety and medical facilities, and without risking the kid’s identity.

 

As soon as he lands at the landing pad of the Tower, he _runs_. Sprints. He sprints the whole way to the medbay, Peter still in his arms, armour retracting into his arc reactor along the way.

 

It’s only been about a minute and a half since he’s gotten Peter out of the building, but he doesn’t know how long the kid hasn’t been breathing _before_ he got there. He might be losing the kid right now.

 

He picks up his pace.

 

The _second_ he gets into the medbay he rests Peter down on the hospital bed, and lets FRIDAY integrate with the hospital’s data.

“FRI, is CPR advisable? Should I just use the-” He swallows. He doesn’t want to use the defibrillator on the kid. No anaesthetic. It’d be just like the doctor again.

_‘CPR is necessary. Use of the defibrillator is not required right now.’_

 

Okay, okay. He can work with that. Tony grabs a nearby oxygen tank and connects the mask to Peter’s face.

 

He knows smoke inhalation means the kid needs a high O2 concentration. Tony ruffles Peter’s hair gently — it helps keep him focused. He’s gotta save the life in front of him.

 

He rests his hands over Peter’s heart and starts pressing down in rhythm with his thoughts. He hates how small Peter is under his hands.

 

 _Son in all but blood._ Tony has to save Peter’s life.

 

The oxygen tank is hissing quietly as he makes Peter’s heart beat for the kid. It’s a disturbing thought, but he continues with the process anyway.

 

One minute.

 

Two minutes.

 

Three…

 

The heart monitor jumps to life with a quiet _beep_. Tony pulls his hands off Peter’s chest, relieved.

 

The kid’s _covered_ in burns. Whatever relief was running through Tony quickly dies. Sure, he got Peter’s heart to beat again, and the high-concentration O2 he’s on will combat the smoke inhalation, but those _burns…_

 

They mark all over his forearms; his legs. They’re gnarled and covered in soot and grime. They’re angry-red and inflamed, some with dried blood on the edges, others still oozing.

 

Most of them look to be third degree burns — they’ve destroyed the kid’s skin in patches. He knows Peter will heal, but it’s still worrying. With the right treatment, maybe they won’t scar.

“FRIDAY? What do I do here?”

_‘Establishing an electrolyte IV would be beneficial to Peter’s recovery.’_

 

Tony looks around the room. All the medical equipment needed is definitely here, it’s just a case of putting it all together. Tony grabs one of the IV bags — one of the ones full of electrolytes, Peter needs those right now — from the stock and hooks it up to the IV stand, letting gravity take over while he swiftly pokes a cannula — watching the needle break skin always disturbs him, more so now that it’s Peter, _his kid_ he’s doing it to — into the crook of Peter’s elbow and attaches the bag to the cannula.

 

Okay, so that’s that. What else?

“FRI?”

 _‘An antibiotic ointment over the wounds. Top cupboard, among all the other creams and topical anaesthetics.’_ Tony follows her instructions closely. Only problem is there’s a _shit ton_ of ointments up here.

“Which one?”

 _‘Stock filing says it’s got a red label on it.’_ Tony grabs the ointment, and a roll of bandages to be safe.

“Anything else?”

 _‘The wound needs cleaning.’_ Tony stops to think.

 

Okay, so that’s… basin of water, definitely. Damp cloth. Medical wipes over the surface of the burns.

 

He grabs what he needs from around the room.

 

Peter still hasn’t stirred by the time Tony gets back to him with everything he needs to treat the kid’s wounds, but Tony isn’t really surprised. As long as the kid wakes up eventually, all is good. So Tony sits down next to the kid and gently dabs over the wounds, over the soot, with the damp cloth until they’re all clean — still angry and red, painful looking — and the water is a murky crimson-brown. He runs over them with the antibacterial wipes to be safe, and then starts to smear the ointment over them.

 

 _That_ gets a response. Not a big one. Just an increase in the rate of beeps on the heart monitor, but it’s still there. Tony winces. The kid’s hurting bad. He should hurry.

 

He covers the burn — the biggest one on the kid’s body, trailing from his ankle up to his knee — before-

 _‘Don’t bandage the wounds. They need to be able to breathe.’_ The voice is different this time. It’s not FRIDAY.

 

_Helen…?_

“What do I do, Helen?” He rests the bandages to the side and starts applying the ointment to the rest of Peter’s burns. They’re numerous; it’s hard work.

_‘You’ve cleaned the wounds, right?’_

“Yeah.”

_‘And you’ve put an ointment on them.’_

“Yeah.”

_‘Just leave his body to heal itself, Tony. I know you want to help him out, but you can’t right now.’_

Tony looks down at his hand. Sighs.

“I know. I’m just gonna stay here with him.”

 _‘That’s probably for the best. Have a good night, Tony.’_ Tony looks across at his kid, breathing through a mask and covered in burns. He won’t have a good night. He’s gonna be _worried_ all night.

“You too, Helen. Thanks.”

 

Peter’s breaths rasp in the silence. Tony just reclines in his seat and closes his eyes. Tony grabs his kid’s hand and gently massages his knuckles.

 

Peter’s stable. That’s good. That’s the best he can ask for right now.

 

So he lets himself go; the even rhythm of Peter’s heartbeats lull him to sleep.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes up the next morning, Peter’s expression is more gentle, and he looks happier. Tony smiles slightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love these fools,, such powerful dad energies


	22. Friendly Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, it's not just your average murderous criminal you have to look out for. Sometimes, it's sparring sessions with your accident prone friendly neighbourhood spider-child you have to keep an eye on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i died making this plot happen in my brain fhdisfv

“Mr. Stark, are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, with my strength, and…” Peter shifts his weight awkwardly on the mat, fiddling with his hands. 

 

They’re in the gym, for once. Nobody’s ever in there anymore, so it’s empty, and as such, Peter’s in his suit. Tony’s got his at the ready in his arc reactor. 

 

Peter shifts his weight on the sparring mat again. 

 

He’s never sparred with the kid before. Peter’s never sparred with anyone, period. This should be fun. He can tell that Peter’s anxiety is through the roof right now because the kid hardly ever spars with people, preferring to just keep his distance. It’s probably quite weird. 

 

Tony’s confident that it’ll go fine. After all, Peter’s got his reflexes and his agility on his side. Tony’s got his armour. They’ll be fine. 

 

He lets the armour form around him while Peter empties out his web shooters. They’re gonna be working purely on defence and offence, and only in hand-to-hand combat. No weapons. 

“You ready?” Tony searches for any sign of reluctance in Peter’s eyes. The kid seems remarkably okay behind his anxiety. That's good. 

 

And thus Tony throws the first armoured punch towards his kid. As expected, Peter dodges it with ease. It wasn’t meant to be an outright attack— it’s also for FRIDAY to gather readings from the nano-tech suit — but it’s still reassuring to see Peter dodge it. 

 

After all, the kid’s only got his suit to protect his fists from impacting the armour. If Tony were to land a serious hit… he fears what could happen. 

 

And it looks like the kid has decided to focus more on defence instead of offence. It’s in character for Peter, who blocks the next hit instead of returning it and redirects the momentum to throw Tony off. Tony huffs. 

 

Peter’s very light on his feet in a fight, Tony notices. Most of his dodging tactics and his defence in general relies on footwork and his ability to move out of the way. He supposes he would rely on instincts and agility as well if he had Peter’s abilities. Doesn’t mean it’s very good though — Peter’s skillset  _ is _ good, but could do with some refining. 

 

Tony makes to kick, and then throws a punch quickly. He can tell that it’s only Peter’s senses that stopped him from getting hit that time — the kid’s eyes are shocked, but determined. They need to work on feints then, too. 

 

So he starts adding more kicks and feints into his offence while Peter dodges. The kid’s focusing more now, working on evading each individual hit instead of the bigger picture. Tony waits for Peter to land from a dodge before he kicks the kid’s leg out from beneath him to the floor. 

 

Peter lands with a  _ thump _ on his back. He rolls over with a groan. Tony can’t help but laugh at the kid’s sour expression as the kid stands back up and brushes himself off. 

“Okay, so. Your defence relies almost entirely on your reflexes and agility, so people can easily take it from you by hindering one or the other. Try to use more offence in your defence, kid. It might help out.” 

Peter nods. “Got it.”

“Okay, now it’s your turn to throw the punches. Don’t hold back. You won’t hurt me.” Tony watches Peter shift into a hesitant fighting stance. The nervousness coming from the kid is nearly  _ palpable _ in its intensity. 

 

The first punch is a helluva lot lighter than Tony  _ knows _ Peter is capable of throwing. The impact of some of the kid’s punches have been more than most other Avengers can manage, let alone cope with. 

 

So he’s nervous. Extremely. Tony figures it might have something to do with the fact that he’s not fighting back, and all of Peter’s fights have been improvised and each motion has been crucial to his survival. In a non-life threatening situation… Peter’s probably a little out of his element. 

 

Tony holds up a hand to signal  _ stop _ . Peter’s cheeks tinge red. 

“Alright, kid. Tell you what. We’ll spar now. Both of us throwing punches. Gotta test your offence too.” Tony shifts into his own stance to prove his point, and he can almost instantly see the difference in Peter’s body language. It goes from almost self-conscious to tense within seconds. 

 

Peter nods slowly to what Tony said. Rolls his shoulders, rolls his neck and stretches out his arms. 

 

And then they’re in action again. 

 

It’s different this time. Peter throws a punch; Tony catches it and responds with his own. He can see instantly how the kid’s behaviour has shifted into something more battle-ready, because not only have his movements sharpened, but FRIDAY’s measuring the impact of Peter’s hits and it’s gone up drastically. 

 

_ Good. _

 

He’s surprised when, a few minutes into the sparring session, he’s forced into defence while Peter keeps his hits coming. He always forgets just how enhanced Peter is under the happy-go-unlucky façade, how he could go toe-to-toe with Rogers easily. He forgets that, underneath the Peter Parker exterior he knows and loves, is Spider-Man. He forgets the kid fights criminals all the time and has to be tough in his own right. 

 

And he’s seeing it now. He’s kinda in awe of it, actually, because his kid is so  _ amazing _ at what he does that he’s forcing an  _ Avenger _ to defend himself. It’s weird though, because how the  _ hell _ can his Peter be so clumsy and gentle when this Peter is almost relentless? The kid looks like he’s enjoying it though — past the grim determination on his face is a gleam of joy in his eyes. It must be fun to not have to hold back. 

 

It’s a little difficult to reconcile Peter, his kid who he loves for being so gentle and loving, with Spider-Man, who he’s clearly facing now. It’s actually a little frightening just how quickly the kid’s shifted stances and almost personalities. Tony guesses this is just how the kid learned to survive his first patrols. 

 

He’s forced back to reality when Peter lands quickly on his foot and moves to deliver a high kick. 

 

Tony blanks out. His body’s on autopilot from so many near-lethal occurrences and sparring sessions with the old Avengers that his brain isn’t even involved with his response. 

 

He’s gotta dodge that hit, but his instincts are telling him to retaliate against it. 

 

He forgets that his opponent isn’t out for blood. He forgets that his opponent is  _ Peter.  _

 

He moves to catch Peter’s leg. 

 

What he actually does is deliver a sharp punch to it instead of blocking. The impact throws Peter to the floor. 

 

The room goes quiet. Tony knows his eyes are wide, but he can’t control it. He doesn’t quite get what just happened. His mind- he just  _ responded.  _ He didn’t think about it. 

 

He just hurt his kid. 

“ _ Peter- _ ”

 

Peter sucks in a quiet breath, and slowly pulls himself upright so he’s kneeling. Tony doesn’t miss how the impacted leg is left as it is. Like the kid can’t move it. 

 

He’s trembling slightly. 

 

_ Oh no no no no no- _

 

“Pete? I’m so sorry,  _ fuck, _ I’m sorry.” He drops down to his knees next to the kid, armour retracting into the storage unit. Peter doesn’t respond to his words. The kid’s fingers curl into fists on the sparring mat. 

“Kid?” He whispers.  _ Fuck, _ Peter was nervous the whole time about hitting him, and now he’s- he’s hit  _ his kid _ . 

 

He’s only forced to do something when he sees something drop against the gym mat. His first thought is  _ fuck, he’s crying. I did that _ , and then he takes a closer look at the thing. It’s not tears. 

 

It’s blood. 

 

Tony gently places his hand under Peter’s chin and lifts. The kid’s eyes are closed tightly, and he’s biting down — really hard — on his lip. Blood trickles from the self-inflicted wound. 

 

And seeing that snaps him out of it. 

“Pete, I gotta get you to medbay. I can carry you. Is that okay?” Peter opens his eyes — they’re full of tears, he’s made his kid  _ cry _ — to look at him. Tony’s chest is suddenly weighed down, and he feels like he’s not breathing. 

 

Now’s not the time for an anxiety attack, he’s gotta make up for what he just did. 

“It’s okay. I can- I can stand. I’m fine.” Peter’s tone is subdued. Like he’s doing all he can to stop his hurt crawling in. Tony’s chest is heavy with guilt, but he lets Peter slowly pull himself upright. He has to use Tony’s arm as a support — he won’t complain about the bruises the kid’s grip is definitely leaving, he just  _ punched him in the shin _ — to even stand up. It breaks Tony’s heart. 

 

Peter takes a step forward. 

 

Or he tries. 

 

The kid instantly trips with a yell, seemingly unable to put any weight on his bad leg at all. Tony’s eyes widen as he ducks forward to catch Peter, wincing slightly as the kid grabs at his arm and  _ squeezes _ hard. 

“Okay. Okay. You’re gonna be fine. I’m gonna help you out, Pete. I got you.” Peter leans into him heavily as they start walking to the medbay. 

 

Tony can’t ignore how he can feel Peter having to  _ hop _ because he can’t put any weight on the limb he hit. He can’t ignore the kid’s hitching breaths and the tear tracks he’s trying to hide. 

 

His guilt eats him alive the entire time they walk. Peter has to lean against him more and more until they finally arrive at the medbay, and even then it’s difficult getting Peter on the hospital bed. 

 

Tony tries his very best not to cry when he realises Peter genuinely can’t get his bad leg up onto the bed. It really hurts  _ that _ bad…? He- the kid-

 

Tony tries his very best to be gentle when he has to lift Peter’s leg up onto the bed. It’s not enough. He can hear still Peter’s quiet whine, and he can still see how the he’s crumpling the rails of the bed under his grip. 

“Don’t bite your cheek, kid.” It’s more of a suggestion than a reprimand, because he can’t take that from the kid. He’s already hurting bad. The limb feels  _ wrong _ in his hands. He’s not sure if it’s an actual sign of a severe injury, or if it’s just his guilt playing up, but it feels  _ off _ .

_ ‘Helen’s on her way. I’ve made her aware of what’s happened.’ _ He appreciates it. Honestly, if he had to tell Helen that… he wouldn’t be able to live with himself, to be frank. The only thing stopping him from descending into a self-hatred hell right now if the fact that Peter still needs him. Speaking of...

“Thanks, FRI. Kid, you need anything?” Peter shuffles on the bed a little. His expression is still pinched, and there’s still blood running down his chin from where he bit his lip. 

“My leg hurts.” Peter's voice trembles. 

“I know. I’m so sorry, Underoos. I didn’t- I just- I’m sorry.” Tony covers his face with his hands. He hit his kid. Sure, they were sparring, but he  _ hit his kid.  _ Peter’s hand lightly slaps his arm a few times. 

“‘t’s fine. You didn’t meant to.”

 

Tony just manages a half-smile. He didn’t mean to, no. He’d never hurt Peter voluntarily, or willingly. But he  _ did. _ And it doesn’t change that he did. The kid’s in pain because of his actions. 

 

Tony sits down in the chair next to Peter’s bed. He can’t not see how when Peter sits upright, he can only lift one knee into a sitting position. The kid’s staring intently at the-

 

Ah. 

 

Helen walks in swiftly, gentle smile on her face. Tony can’t respond with one of his own, he just stares down at his hands. His hands that  _ hurt _ Peter. 

“Training accident?”

Peter goes to speak, but Tony cuts him off. God knows he’d die on the spot if Peter tried to take the blame. 

“Yeah. He kicked. I punched his leg.”

Helen raises an eyebrow. “I’m going to assume that was an accident, then?”

“It was an accident, Ms. Cho. He didn’t mean to do it.” Tony looks up sharply, disbelieving. Surely the kid isn’t forgiving him just like  _ that _ …?

“I-!”

“C’mon, Mr. Stark. You can’t take the blame for an accident.” It’d be a lot easier to believe that if Peter’s voice didn’t waver as he said it. 

“Tony, he’ll be fine. I’m just going to take Peter for an x-ray of his leg, okay?”

 

Tony swallows down his guilt for a second. He has to just… he’s gotta move on and deal with it. Peter doesn’t blame him. He shouldn’t blame himself. 

 

It’s never that easy to forgive himself. 

 

So instead he watches, wounded, as Helen helps Peter into a wheelchair and they leave. Peter gives him a little wave before he’s out of the room. 

 

Tony rests his head in his hands. Jesus  _ shit _ . He’s got no energy left in him to do more than remember those few adrenaline-filled seconds. He remembers how easy it had been to train with the kid, and he remembers just how challenging it was for him to keep up with Peter’s speed.

 

The kid’s fast, and strong. Maybe stronger than Cap at his best. Easily the fastest person he’s seen,  _ period _ . He’s more than capable of protecting himself, but he’s a little messy in terms of techniques. 

 

Tony’s resolve strengthens. As soon as Peter’s recovered, he’s gonna drag in everyone he can to train the kid. He wants Peter to be able to kick all their asses single handedly. Not that the kid ever  _ would _ , but… 

 

Tony spends the next ten minutes stuck in his own head. What could he have done? Was there anything he could have done? Maybe they weren’t ready to spar-

“Tony. C’mon, get out of your head.”

 

Helen’s voice quickly snaps him out of his funk. He looks to her side- Peter’s not there. He looks at her, eyes questioning. 

“He’s asleep. I had to give him some of the  _ stronger _ painkillers, and they pretty much knocked him out.” She gestures for him to come with as she speaks, and he does. Walking through the halls in this place is pretty much a horror experience — every time he’s been here recently, it’s been with Peter in his arms, hurt or close to dying. It’s disturbing to be there now  _ without _ Peter. 

“Tony?”

Hm? “Wha- yeah? Sorry, what were you saying? I kinda- zoned out a little.” Helen gives him a small, concerned smile, and repeats herself. 

“I said we set and casted Peter’s leg. Just… make him take it easy on the moving for the next week. It was a clean break, it should heal without anymore complications.”

Tony nods. The kid’s leg’s been casted. He’s probably gonna have to rely on crutches for a few days, and even then movement should be kept minimal. Okay. He can make up something about an extended SI internship project, easy. Then Peter’s got an alibi  _ and _ Tony can stop him from trying to patrol with a broken leg. 

 

Good. 

 

The thought doesn’t prepare him to see Peter, lightly snoozing, broken leg stretched out and casted. The kid’s all fixed up, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less to know that his actions caused this to happen in the first place. Tony walks over to the kid and gently rubs his knuckles. They’re not cold like they usually are after Peter’s been wounded severely. In a kind of messed up way, it could even be reassuring to him.

 

He nearly jumps backward when Peter blinks awake. Helen said he was sleeping…?

 

He looks Peter in the eyes. They’re kinda glassy, not in the about-to-cry-abort-mission kind of way, but in the high-as-fuck sort of way. So maybe Peter just dozed off instead of passing out.

“Hi, Mr. Stark.” The conspiratorial way Peter whispers is almost funny. Yeah, he’s definitely high right now.

“Hey, kid.” Tony watches Peter’s eyes light up when he gives a small wave at the kid. The way he’s so unguarded right now… Peter hasn’t really been like this since- since Toomes. It’s upsetting to think about, so he just resolves not to. He can live in the moment right now.

 

And in the moment,  _ Peter is super fucking high _ .

“Can you sign my cast?”

Tony looks up sharply. He can  _ hear _ Helen stifling giggles at the doorway. “Uh, sure thing, kid. I don’t have a pen at the minute though.”

“You can use mine, Tony.” So he takes the pro-offered pen from Helen and scrawls his name and a ‘get well soon, buddy’ onto Peter’s cast (alongside a small doodle of his arc reactor). Peter seems pleased by the signature, and flops backwards against his pillow.

“You good now, kid?”

“I’m tired.” Peter raises his arm up and flexes his fingers like he’s grabbing the ceiling. Tony can’t help but be amused by the kid’s behaviour. 

“Go for a nap, then. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

“You should- you should go to sleep too, Mr. Tony.” Peter mumbles into his pillow. Tony actually has to bury his face in his hands to hide the fact that he’s creasing up.  _ Mr. Tony. _ Gets him every single goddamn time.

“Oh, my god- yes, I’ll go to sleep too. You just- you just burn off those drugs.”

 

And then Peter’s out like a light. Tony’s almost worried about how quickly he goes from bubbly to snoring. Helen just takes her pen back (and also signs Peter’s cast) before giving him a smile and leaving the room.

 

He still feels guilty for literally breaking his kid’s leg, but… he’s tired now.

 

He’ll think about it more in the morning.

 

* * *

Turns out, having Peter in a cast isn’t as bad as he thought it would be. Sure, the kid’s arms get tired after a while of using the crutches, and more often than not Tony winds up just carrying Peter around anyway, but it’s not as guilt-inducing as he’d originally thought. Actually, it’s been pretty amusing and enlightening. The following week actually passes pretty quickly, to his surprise, and the kid only makes a few attempts to escape and do his spider-thing. They spend a lot of time in the labs designing and drawing out sketches for new tech, and occasionally May (who had decided to take a brief holiday to the compound. Peter was overjoyed) and Pepper dragged them out to eat.

 

It’s a pretty memorable week, actually.

 

There is this one time he walks past Rhodey with Peter in his arms, dozing-

* * *

_ “Tony?” _

_ Tony stares Rhodey dead in the face, expression serious. “Don’t.” _

 

_ He leaves just as quickly as he walked in. He can hear Rhodey cracking up in the distance. _

* * *

 

And another time he let Peter commandeer the entire couch on movie night-

* * *

_ “No, Rhodey, I’m not gonna ‘get off your lap’ — I’m not even in your lap —, he’s taking a nap and I broke his leg.” _

* * *

 

And when he told May what happened at one of their ‘co-parent meetings’, and instead of decking him like she should have she just opened a bottle of wine to share it-

 

* * *

_ “Stop blaming yourself. I swear, your combined guilt complexes could power a city.” _

* * *

 

But there’s nothing that warrants the amount of dread he had felt as Peter fell to the floor. The entire thing is actually more of a bonding experience than anything else.

 

It’s fun.

 

There’s a picture on his wall of Peter napping on him, casted leg stretched out across his own. It’s definitely one of his favourites.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tony stark, the daddest dad to ever dad


	23. Self-Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out, being a self-sacrificial idiot is a trait on both sides of this equation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this. is. so. late.

It’s a simple sort of mission — they just have to patrol an area where weird activity has been reported to be happening. 

 

It’s him and Mr. Stark patrolling the area. It’s fun. Peter’s used to just… doing it alone, really, and having company as he swings between buildings is nice. Even when that nagging feeling at the back of his head rises up again, and he takes cover behind a building, it’s nice to have company. Mr. Stark is next to him, worried. 

“You okay, kid? Are you hurt?”

“No, no- I’m not hurt. It’s just… my spidey-senses… something’s gonna-”

 

In the distance, Peter hears an explosion rock the air. He looks up sharply, alert, and takes off in the direction of the sound. 

“Kid-!”

 

Tony’s following him still. That’s good. It means he’s got backup again. Peter lands gracefully on the street, where a small fire is raging in the distance. He frowns. He can’t  _ see _ anyone. His spidey-senses aren’t telling him of any imminent threat, so why…

 

Tony lands behind him and rests a hand on his shoulder. Peter jumps. 

“Jeez- you scared me.”

Mr. Stark’s voice sounds apologetic. “Sorry, kiddo.”

 

Peter gives a small huff (in good humour, Mr. Stark knows that) and walks on forward towards the flames. It’s still a little weird to walk on his leg though — the cast only came off it a few days ago. He’s still a little tender on his landings and most harsh movements, but at least he can walk again. That’s cool.

 

A slight movement out of the corners of his eye gets his attention, and he stops harshly. He makes sure to grab Mr. Stark’s arm too. 

“Kid?” He hears the harsh whisper. Peter can’t talk though, because all his senses are slowly climbing up into the unbearable territory and-

“Shit. Peter, we gotta go.”

 

There are people in the nearby alleyways. Peter tries to dig through his memory, to no avail. He’s more of a Queens-area guy. This is closer to Brooklyn than home. Who knows what kind of gang this is?

“Kid. We should leave.” 

 

Peter aims his web shooters at a nearby wall, but they just sputter.  _ He’s out.  _ There’s no spare cartridges in his suit. He looks at Tony desperately, and within a few seconds he seems to understand. Peter can hear the slightly clicking sound of a gun being screwed with. It forces anxiety up into his throat, constricting his airway. He doesn’t like guns. Nobody does, he supposes, but he’s seen to many of them killing or hurting people to be okay near them anymore. And his dad figure’s with him. Again. And he’s out of web fluid.

 

No matter how fast he is, he can’t outrun a bullet. He can hear very quiet, hushed whispers just off the edge of his ability to hear clearly. Peter can pick out choice words from the mess.

“...take ‘em…”

“...they’re stuck…”

 

He can’t breathe. They’re right — they  _ are _ stuck. Mr. Stark is a high-profile target. Spider-Man has probably been a thorn in their side for a while now. He’s got no webbing, no way of escape, and there are enough people around that Mr. Stark wouldn’t be able to fly him out without him getting shot first. And speaking of Mr. Stark — he’s unusually quiet. The Iron Man suit is as stoic as ever, revealing nothing. The silence is making Peter antsier then he was. Silence is never good, it’s always bad. If it’s silent now… 

“Peter.” Metal clad arms grab him, turn him to face Mr. Stark.

 

The armour is opens itself up, and Tony steps out. Peter gapes up at him, shocked. Why the hell would he give up his armour in such a bad position? Tony wraps his arms around him securely, one hand in his hair. Peter could almost melt into the touch. And then he realises…

 

No.

 

No, no, no.

 

Before he can respond, Tony’s spun him around and shoved him into the armour. It closes up before he can protest or even blink. Tony’s eyes are apologetic, but he can’t do anything about it. All those guys have guns. Mr. Stark just gave up his only line of defence. Mr. Stark can’t heal like he can. Mr. Stark’s gonna be stuck there in the hands of these guys, if they don’t kill him first.

 

He’s hyperventilating by now. Mr. Stark isn’t meant to self-sacrifice. That’s… it’s not meant to be like this.

“Mr. Stark? Mr. Stark?! Mr. Stark, what the  _ hell _ are you doing?! Mr. Stark!” The joints of the damn suit are locked. He can’t pick Tony up. All the can see is the bright blue of FRIDAY’s interface and the suit’s energy outputs. He doesn’t want to see that, he wants to save his dad.

“FRIDAY, take him home.” The output readings on the suit change. More of it is diverted to the boot jets.  _ Mr. Stark’s gonna- _

“Mr. Stark! Stop it, let me out!” Tony just looks sorry. Peter can hear the people more clearly now. They’re getting closer.

“Sorry, kid.”

 

His stomach jolts as the suit comes off the floor. FRIDAY’s piloting it, so he knows he’s safe, but now Mr. Stark’s gonna be in the hands of whoever the hell gang this is and-

 

And he’s got nothing to protect himself with.

 

Peter has no choice but to watch as the street gets smaller and he heads back to the compound.

 

* * *

 

The very  _ second _ the suit lands and opens up is the same second he throws himself out of the suit, tears off his mask, and collapses into the nearest available set of arms.

 

It’s Colonel Rhodes. He looks notably panicked. Peter can’t tell if that’s because FRIDAY has already told him what’s happened, or because he has an armful of hyperventilating teenager, but he is, and Peter’s still freaking out.

“Calm down, kid. I got you.” It’s almost comforting, but Mr. Stark is usually the one to tell him that and it isn’t the same now. Underneath his panic is  _ literally just more panic. _

“We have to save Mr. Stark! I can’t stay- I have to find him. He’d find me. I have to save him.”

 

Rhodey’s look is sympathetic, and Peter hates it.  _ He _ doesn’t need help. Mr. Stark needs help. 

“We’ll make a plan, kid. I’m sure as hell not leaving Tony behind.” It’s not what he wants to hear, but right now it’s the next best thing. 

 

He’s maybe just  _ slightly _ unnerved when the suit — he’s pretty sure it’s the Mark 42 — starts following him down to the labs. He walks to the side. The suit mirrors him. He walks back to Rhodey. The suit follows. 

“Uh, Mr. Rhodey?” The man turns around to face him, eyebrow raised. Peter gestures at the suit, and Rhodey makes a face of understanding. 

“In Tony’s absence, that suit’s keyed to you, kiddo.”

 

Peter stops. He stops, and he takes a moment to be in awe because  _ there’s an Iron Man suit keyed to him in specific.  _ Mr. Stark keyed that suit to him. Until Mr. Stark gets back, it’s his. 

 

Nah. His awe is overtaken by his panic easily. Stupid, self-sacrificial-

 

So this is how Mr. Stark feels, huh? 

 

“Kid.” Rhodey activates one of the holotables and brings up a nap of New York. 

“Narrow it down.”

 

* * *

 

By the time they’ve got a solid plan, it’s been about three hours since Peter arrived at the compound mid-panic attack. 

 

The plan is simple: track down Tony using the tracker in his nanobot storage unit. Get there, kick ass, get Tony out and shut them down. 

 

And so Peter has to step back into the Mark 42. He feels apprehension as he walks toward the suit again — after all, last time he was near it, Mr. Stark sacrificed himself for him. But they have to get him back. They have to. So even if Peter can’t really breathe properly from the second the armour closes up around him (jesus, how can Mr. Stark deal with this? It’s so tight, and he’s claustrophobic) and he can’t help but be scared the entire time FRIDAY follows Tony’s tracker, he makes himself deal with it. 

 

He’s got a dad to save. 

 

All that false confidence goes out the window when they arrive at the place the tracker is signalling to. 

 

_ Just another goddamn warehouse in Brooklyn. _

“FRIDAY? How do I do- the repulsor thingy? What do I do?” He doesn’t know the first thing about these suits. It’s a little disconcerting. 

_ ‘Raise the palm. I’ll take care of the rest.’ _

“Oh- Thanks, FRIDAY. Thanks.” He just wants to free Mr. Stark without having to do anything drastic, ‘cause let’s face it, if Tony weren’t bound, he would have gotten out by now. 

_ ‘No problem. Now save my boss.’ _ Peter laughs slightly. 

 

Rhodey lands in front of the warehouse and tears the doors open, with no regards for the chains or padlock supposedly keeping it shut. Peter walks over — he would run, but the damn suit is too clunky — and joins Rhodey. The response to their arrival is instant — there’s yelling, and the instant pattering of gunfire on their suits. Peter flinches and raises a hand to protect himself before he realises — gold titanium alloy suit. He doesn’t need to fear the bullets like he normally does. It’s not a normal patrol, he’s got an Iron Man suit and he’s got a dad to save. 

 

Rhodey instantly walks on in and attracts the attention of just about everyone, and it gives Peter the cover he needs to get to Mr. Stark. 

 

They’ve left them both unattended. That’s kinda stupid. Mr. Stark’s only got a bruise on his cheek, and it’s easy to break the ropes binding his wrists. 

“I got you, Mr. Stark.”

“They only wanted money. They were gonna… they were gonna send a message to SI. Bargain on me.”

“They’re not now. I got you.” The suit opens up and Peter steps out, forcefully shoving Mr. Stark inside in his place. It closes again. 

“Oh. I missed this.”

“Don’t give me the suit next time. Don’t want it.” Peter stretches out. Thank god he has his mask on again. He can hear the Iron Man suit’s joints shifting and recalibrating as Tony rolls his arms. 

“Why’d you come back, kid? You’re not safe here.” Peter looks up sharply. 

“Yeah, well neither are you. You wouldn’t leave  _ me _ here.” 

“But… Peter, you shouldn’t have risked yourself-!” 

 

He doesn’t know why, but… upon hearing  _ that _ , he just… snaps. 

“I’ve already lost three parents, I can’t lose a fourth.” It comes out a lot harsher than he intends, and Mr. Stark almost looks cowed. 

“Okay, kid. Let’s go kick some ass.”

 

Rhodey’s already taken out the majority of the people in the warehouse, but there are still a few left, and bullet fire is still deafening him. He just tries to keep himself from getting shot, and webs up people when he can, which is much less often than he’d like but hey-ho, it’s probably better to not get shot than to help out. 

 

Kidding. 

 

He’s about to give a quip when it happens. Mr. Stark looks at him. The Iron Man suit’s faceplate lifts up. 

 

Tony’s eyes are wide. 

“What, do I have something on my s-”

  
  


* * *

 

“I swear to god, kid, you lead a rescue mission and you don’t even notice when you get freakin’  _ shot?”  _ Hand in his hair. It’s nice. 

 

“Tony, he did it to save you. Calm down.”

 

“Rhodey. He got  _ shot.  _ He damn near bled out in my arms, self-sacrificial bastard.”

 

Peter doesn’t open his eyes. “Says you.”

 

His heartbeat is pretty steady to listen to, so it can’t be that bad. The hand in his hair stops moving. He frowns. 

 

“Fuck you. Just had to go and one-up me on the sacrifice act, huh?” Mr. Stark’s words almost make him laugh. But he’s pretty tired. 

 

“You love me.”

 

Everything’s going fuzzy again, so he lets himself go back to sleep. 

 

He doesn’t miss when Mr. Stark speaks next, though. 

 

“Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this just in: dad tony loves spider son, more at 11


	24. Drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your not so friendly neighbourhood Hudson river strikes again!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so goddamn late pls forgive me

He doesn’t know what happened. He just  _ doesn’t know.  _ One second, he’s in his labs and tinkering like normal, and the next second FRIDAY’s telling him that Peter’s tracker is under the goddamn Hudson — again — and he hasn’t been able to breathe in twenty, twenty one, twenty two, twenty three seconds, and Tony  _ shits himself. _

 

As in, the armour has only just formed around him when he launches himself out of the lab and up into the sky. All the things on his HUD have been dimmed out, turned off in favour of focusing just on Peter’s tracker and rapidly declining vitals,  _ shit- _

 

And for the second time in the past year, he’s diving headfirst into the Hudson to rescue his kid from otherwise certain death. 

 

It’s not as easy as last time. Despite how he upgraded his suit (the repulsors can now retain a charge to act as torches) to be better, Peter still isn’t in sight. 

 

One. Darkness. All consuming. The outside of the armour is getting cold now. 

 

Two. The occasional, faint glimmer of light from above. His arms and legs are getting cold. Balancing himself between sinking and searching is hard. 

 

Three. The reflection of his gauntlets on plastic, drifting carelessly through the water. He’s so  _ cold.  _ He can only imagine how Peter feels. 

 

_ If... _

 

Four. C’mon…

 

_ Five-! _

 

There. Limbs outstretched, hands still grasping for nothing, is Peter. The mask is on. The eyes are closed. 

 

Urgency floods into his system, and suddenly the cold all goes away. Navigating in the water is hard, but he does it anyways because this is  _ Peter’s life _ at stake and he’s never been one to risk Peter’s life in anything. As soon as the kid is positioned above his arms, slowly sinking into them, Tony launches himself out the water. There’s iciness in his veins, but it’s not from the cold. So maybe he’s panicking. 

 

It’s not like last time, when he breaks the surface of the water. Peter doesn’t lurch in his arms or gasp for breath. He doesn’t even twitch. Dread is making residence in his throat, maybe permanently, because  _ Peter isn’t moving and he doesn’t know what to do. _ There’s no time to rush to the compound, it had been risky enough when he saved the kid from the building fire. 

 

So he drops down onto some roof and rests the kid down on the gravel; tears off his mask. Still no movement. Tony’s pretty sure he’s in shock. 

 

His hair’s curled. It’s not poofing up like normal, it’s just… staying there. His eyes are closed. He’s pale. Blue lipped.  _ Dead.  _

 

“FRIDAY, is he-?” Panic panic panic. He’s got too much to lose here. He should have been there for the kid, he should have been there  _ with _ the kid.

_ ‘He’s got a pulse, but he’s not breathing. There’s water in his lungs, boss, you’re gonna have to resuscitate him.’  _ There’s ice in his veins again. He can’t shake it out. He knows what resuscitation is. He knows what it entails. What he  _ doesn’t _ understand is that he’s gotta do that to his kid. 

“I’ve gotta  _ what _ ?”

_ ‘Tilt his head to the side, wait until the water drains out.’ _ FRIDAY’s voice is urgent, so Tony follows her orders quickly. He feels sick at the sight of murky water spilling past Peter’s lips. The kid’s neck shouldn’t be so pliant in his grip. 

_ ‘You’re gonna have to perform rescue breaths, boss. Pinch his nose and breathe strongly four times for him.’ _

 

Tony swallows harshly. He looks at Peter, at the deathly pale tone of his skin and the contrasting darkness of the suit he’s wearing. 

 

It doesn’t feel right to have to breathe for the kid. It’s not right for him to be hurt so bad he can’t even breathe.

_ ‘Check his breathing.’ _ He does. Nothing.

_ ‘Check his pulse.’  _ He does that, too, and while there is one (he could cry in relief), it’s sluggish and weak.

_ ‘Continue the rescue breaths.’ _

 

He does it once, twice, three times before anything happens.

 

Peter’s chest jumps with a start and the kid coughs harshly, water dribbling down his cheeks again. He doesn’t do much more than that — the kid just shudders (he’s gotta be  _ freezing _ , it’s winter now and he can’t thermoregulate) and curls up into a ball. His eyes are closed. 

 

Tony scoops Peter up like a baby and shoots off in the direction of the compound. He has Karen activate the Spidey suit’s heater along the way, but it does little to stop him from shivering. It’s probably because the kid’s hair is soaked to his head from the  _ impromptu drowning session _ , but… that doesn’t matter. Tony clutches the tiny form in his arms a little bit tighter. 

“I got you, Pete. I got you. You’re gonna be fine.”

 

The kid doesn’t respond. 

“FRIDAY, contact Helen. Tell her to come to Peter’s room. Make it urgent.” He doesn’t take the time to take off the suit — it just disassembles itself while he runs and flies itself back to where they’re all stored. Peter’s still damp in his arms and he’s cold and he  _ hates _ how unresponsive he still is. He supposed be just got lucky last time; it’s a damn miracle the kid didn’t drown himself there, too. 

 

So when he gets into Peter’s room, he instantly rests the kid down on his mattress and swathes him in his comforter, and blankets, and more blankets, until he finally stops shivering and relaxes a little bit more. It’s still not very good, because there are so, so many things that could go wrong from here, but that’s gotta be better right?

 

Peter rolls over a little; curls into the mountain of blankets embracing him and releases a shuddering breath. Tony just wants Helen to hurry up. The Hudson is a  _ breeding ground _ for bacteria, and the kid swallowed water. He can’t leave the kid here when god knows how many diseases could be attacking his immune system right now-

“Tony?” The quiet voice snaps him out of his reverie. He turns around sharply, away from Peter, to face who he already knows is there.

“Helen.” He says. His voice is more relieved than he wants it to be, but Peter is involved and nothing makes sense when Peter is involved because he hasn’t really been a parent before, and jesus, how do people do it and survive intact? There’s so much to worry about.

“Tony.” 

“Right, sorry. Kiddo took a nose dive into the Hudson. Had to- I had to resuscitate him. Just thought- ‘cause there’s so much plastic and gross shit floating around in there that you should check him out, make sure he’s not gonna- like- keel over or something.” Tony wrings his hands together. Helen gives a slight nod and a smile.

“I’ve never seen you like this before… with anyone. I mean, it’s obvious how much you love Pepper and Rhodey and Happy, but…” Helen does her… doctor-thing (don’t look at him, he’s a machine-fixer, not a people-fixer) as she speaks, probably to keep his mind off it. He’s grateful.

“He’s my kid.” Tony says with a shrug. Because that’s it, plain and simple. Peter is his  _ kid _ . The last piece of his jigsaw family.

“Yeah, I think we got your memo, Tony.” Helen laughs lightly. Peter looks more comfortable than he did five minutes ago, but he still can’t shake the worry. The kid’s gotta take a break after that.

“Good. Honestly, I definitely agree with May’s ‘co-parenting’ rules. How I went from- from ‘mentor’ to… this… I don’t know. It’s weird.” It definitely is. Damn kid got under his skin.

“Mhm. Kind of is, kind of isn’t. You’ve wanted to get close to people, but you kept getting hurt. It’s understandable that you’ve bonded.”

Tony shifts awkwardly. He’s never been too comfortable with the whole psychoanalysis thing, but this… egh. Too many traumas to rear their ugly heads. 

“Yeah.” The admission surprises him. C’mon. Helen looks at him, looks back at Peter, looks at him again and sucks in a breath.

“Well, the good thing is that he looks fine. No symptoms of a fever starting up, his chest’s expanding fine… Maybe his bad luck streak just broke itself.” Peter doesn’t look ill, either. He’s still a tiny bit too pale to be completely normal, but… he’s not outright dying, so that’s good.

Tony hums. “Yeah, hopefully.”

“Yeah. Well, if you think anything’s going wrong, you can have FRIDAY come get me again, but… I think he’ll be fine.” Helen stands, and picks up her bag of equipment before looking Tony dead in the face. Her eyes are warm. Tony gives a smile (a genuine one, not the false-media smile he normally has to use). 

 

He waits until he can’t hear Helen’s footsteps disappearing down the hall before he exhales slowly and runs a hand through his hair. Jesus. He’s not gonna get a break, is he? Kids are stressful.

 

Oh god, he’s become a helicopter mom.

 

Or more of one.

 

Yeesh.

 

He settles down onto the plush sofa that’s in the kid’s room. It’s not the most comfortable thing in the world, but it’ll have to do. He’s got to make sure nothing goes wrong in the night. With this kid… normal odds don’t tend to apply to him. He’s best off being safe rather than sorry.

 

Tony slowly drifts off to sleep with the knowledge and hope that maybe, maybe this whole thing might turn out okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hOCUS POCUS I CAN'T FOCUS


	25. Restraints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s never just physical restraints that have to be worried about. The psyche is a whole different thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is actually early?? Wow??

They don’t happen very often anymore, but that doesn’t mean they don’t happen at all. 

 

Nightmares are slightly more common in Peter’s life than he’d like. But that’s fine. He’s had them for quite a long time, now. The first ones, when he was young… well, young _ er _ … had been plain. Simple. Just his parents, kissing him goodbye and walking into the darkness. Then the darkness swallowed them up and they didn’t come back, and that’s how Peter’s first nightmares and his fear of the dark were born. 

 

Then there’s Ben. He plagues his dreams a lot more often than his parents, even now. Memories of cold, sticky blood on his very sensitive fingers and the sound of a slowing heartbeat are scary enough, but… watching his uncle pale, watching his skin turn ashen and his eyes close…

 

That’s been haunting him since it happened. It was his fault, right? So he should carry the brunt of that ghost on his shoulders. Can’t learn ‘til you suffer for it. 

 

People have told him he’s gonna change the world some day. With that responsibility, it only makes sense to him that he carries the weight of it. 

 

And then there’s Spider-Man. Or, the villains and bad guys he fights as Spider-Man. They have their own little section of horror show in his head. It’s mainly Toomes, to be honest-

 

He thrashes, but he never gets anywhere from it. His body’s cold. There’s something pressing into his back ( _ it’s concrete it’s concrete stuck again under all that concrete in my tomb gonna die _ ) and it’s digging into him, biting into his flesh and tearing away at him. His limbs are all tangled, and he can feel himself shaking and bucking and trying to get out, but he never can. The weight on his chest just pushes down more until his ribs are at their breaking point and his sternum feels like the thin ice on top of a lake, just waiting to crack and let him fall. 

 

In these dreams, these ones about his bad guys, if he listens he can  _ hear _ . He’s still stuck in his concrete restraints, unable to move and unable to breathe, but he can hear. 

 

It’s always laughter. Or mocking tones from above the tomb he’s suffocating in, threatening to tear up everything he loves like an old photograph. He can hear fires roaring on a beach and jet engines whirring; crashing into sand like it’s rock and deafening him-

 

He can hear electricity crackling and burning his chest after his heart stops working. 

 

Some days, he can feel water in his lungs from too many dips in the Hudson and he can never breathe. 

 

That’s the constant throughout his years of having his little demons, his skeletons in the closet only emerging in his dreams. It’s constant that Peter Parker can never breathe in his nightmares. It’s the darkness in his lungs when he’s a kid, freezing him in place as his parents disappear into the night. It’s the guilt flooding into his lungs and alveoli and bone marrow and neurons when Ben dies in front of him and there’s blood coating his hands and a chill spreading into his gut. It’s the concrete pushing into his chest and down on his back that chokes him afterwards, and then there’s the doctor and the Hudson and-

 

Peter jolts upright and awake, into somebody’s arms. He responds absently to the contact (they’re warm, they’re warm, why is he so so cold?) until he can remember who he is, why he is, what he’s doing and who it could be that’s pulling him out of the dark, out from the concrete and back to reality. 

 

His parents are dead. Ben is dead. Toomes is in jail. That doctor is dead. He’s still cold, shaking; being rocked back and forth in someone’s arms. 

 

They’re just skeletons in his closet. 

“I got you kiddo.”

 

Peter knows this embrace. It’s like dad’s, from his faintest memories, all warm and strong and even if he’s about to fall apart, he’s got this to go home to. Even if he tries and he fails, or he gets hurt or feels like he can’t go on, he’s got a home to come back to. 

 

He’s got Tony and he’s got May. They’re his home when he can’t carry himself. They’re who he can trust to just… carry him away from whatever stupid evil thing wants to get him and keep him safe. 

 

That’s why he keeps them safe. He’s got to protect his homes. 

“Thanks, dad.”

“I got you, kiddo. Love you.”

 

The only difference from them is that now, when Peter wakes up from a nightmare and doesn’t know what to do, he’s got someone else to drag him through it. 

 

He drifts back off in the embrace, one warm arm wrapped around him and the other in his hair. 

 

He’s warm. He can breathe. 

 

It’s nice to have that again. It’s nice to have a bigger family, new and improved and without the patches and holes in the framework. It’s nice to know that, when his skeletons crawl out the closet, he’s got someone to go to to fend them off with him. 

 

He’d forgotten what having a dad was like. 

 

He isn’t going to again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me wanting my boi to be happy,,


	26. Broken ribs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just because he’s got gold-titanium alloy armour doesn’t mean he’s infallible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hgn I spent so long listening to my friends reading through the thaddy tag yesterday. I blame @ironmanstan on tumblr

_‘Peter. Mr. Stark’s calling an assist from his location.’_  The voice is too loud in his ears and it makes him jump.

 

Peter looks up from the weird robot thing he’s just disposed of — and by disposed, he means destroyed. He really didn’t mean to hit that hard — and whips his head around. There’s nobody in the streets aside from decimated robo-corpses, so where-

 

Oh, right. Karen.

“What? Where?” He winces at the motor oil coating his arms. It’s disturbing enough that whoever designed these did a damn good job making them look almost-human in features, but the oil-blood is just crazy. It’s covered up to his elbows from a few punches clean through their chests (he’s probably broken a few knuckles, if the pain in his hand is anything to go by). His HUD lights up in a path following pavements and roads, down a block from where he is.

 

It’s him, Vision, Rhodey and Tony taking these bots. There’s not many of them, but they seem intent on causing plentiful damage. So if Karen is calling him over someone who’s got nigh-on indestructible armour, it’s serious.

 

So Peter breaks into a sprint, and he taps into some of the not-inconsiderable strength he knows he has to get there quickly.

 

He doesn’t use his speed very often outside of fights, there’s never really much need because he’s generally webbing his way to where he needs to go. But this time the swinging would take up precious time, and he can’t waste that, so he just… he runs.

 

Peter rounds street corners and vaults off a few tall signs toward where his display wants him to go, toward where Tony needs his help.

 

His breaths are rapid and deep. It’s not quite because he’s tired, not yet. A bonus of the spider bite is that his stamina is way more than it used to be, even running at superhuman speeds. It’s easy to keep this pace.

 

He’s just a little bit panicked.

 

And that _little bit_ of panic becomes a waiting panic attack when he sees the sheer volume of robots surrounding Mr. Stark. It’s like they’ve all concentrated themselves here, where Tony is. Maybe they have. Maybe their bad guy has a grudge.

 

Peter scales a wall slowly and gets a good vantage point. There’s a lot, maybe twenty of them throwing themselves at Tony all at once. The volume of them is overwhelming Mr. Stark. Peter aims a web at one of them and presses down hard on the button in his palm to activate the taser webs. It’s much easier to just fry their circuits than punch them all individually, and also his hands are _really_ aching now and maybe he should just cover his hands in webs next time so he doesn’t break them.

 

The first bot goes down from the electricity, still on the ground. Peter doesn’t wait before he repeats the process again, and another falls. He can’t hold this up forever — his suit isn’t designed for prolonged and powerful electricity outputs. It’s designed for brief bursts of it.

 

He manages to dispose of what, about five of them before his web shooters become uncomfortably hot on his wrists and he can’t do it anymore. His display is just a little bit darker than it was before.

 

Mr. Stark is still struggling to kick the bots from his tail. Peter sighs, refills his web cartridges, and leaps from his vantage on the building to kick one of them in the head as hard as he can.

 

The robot flies into a nearby wall, cracking the bricks, and doesn’t get back up. Peter huffs, and he wraps his fists in a thick coat of webbing. If he’s gonna go back to fist fighting sad versions of Ultron, he’s not breaking any more fingers.

 

The robots all turn to face him at once, and Peter is forced to the realisation that _maybe_ he’s made a slight error in his judgement, and this might have been a mistake.

“Hi.”

 

_Stupid._

“Kid, what the fu-?” Tony’s voice is wheezy and quiet, and Peter’s eyes widen. Okay, so not only does he have a small robot army coming to kill him, but Mr. Stark is hurt and-

 

The telltale tingle at the back of his skull starts screaming and he jumps sharply to the side of the horde, onto the wall of an alley.

 

Just in time for a yellowish bean of energy to obliterate them. _All_ of them. Like goddamn popcorn.

 

Peter tries not to feel disheartened by how crazy strong Vision is. And it works, because Vision is _Vision_ and Vision can’t stick to walls. But he _can_ popcorn robots.

“Cool.”

“I have to continue my fight. Can you take him?” _Oh-!_ Vision’s talking to him. That’s cool, that’s cool. Right. Peter nods quickly and looks over to where Mr. Stark is lying down in the center of the popcorned robot mess, clutching at us ribs. It’s a mirror image of himself after the airport fight, to be honest, and Peter doesn’t like it.

 

So he jogs over to Mr. Stark (he’s keeled over, sputtering and struggling to breathe, and he can’t help but be freaked out) and follows Karen’s directions on how he can pick the man up safely and quickly (not that it’s hard, after benching a building, Mr. Stark weighs very little, even in the armour). The good thing is that Tony is still responsive.

 

The bad thing is that Peter has never been good at carrying people and swinging.

 

He looks up. He’s not that far from Stark Tower. If he runs…

 

Peter sighs. He’d have to run up god knows how many flights of stairs to get Mr. Stark to medical anyways. So he’s got an armful of gold-titanium alloy and nowhere to put the man inside it.

 

He nearly jumps when another suit of armour lands beside him. Actually, scrap that, he _does_ jump, because _why_ do Mr. Stark and Rhodey have to land so loudly? Peter rubs at his ears.

“Kid, give me Tony. I’ll take him back to the compound.”

Peter hands the man over reluctantly. He doesn’t like seeing Tony hurt. The man’s meant to be infallible. It’s always disturbing. Mr. Stark’s been a symbol of strength for nearly a decade now, and seeing him down…

 

Peter shakes his head. He’s done his fight. His fists are _killing_ him. Vision can blow up all the other bots with the Mind Stone.

 

Peter walks up the side of a building, breaks into a sprint, leaps as hard as he can, and starts swinging his way back up to the compound.

 

He should probably get his hands checked out.

 

* * *

 

It’s so weird how the first room he runs into is not only occupied, but Mr. Stark’s.

 

Peter _totally_ isn’t going to check up on his mentor/dad before he gets his hands fixed.

“He just broke a few ribs. He’ll live.” Helen tells him, but Peter can’t really hear over the sudden loudness of the blood in his ears.

 

He’s anxious. He’s learned to spot the signs early over time. He can’t stop shaking. His fingers keep drumming the same rhythm (ow) into his arms and he can’t stop it and he hates it.

 

He sincerely hopes this isn’t how Mr. Stark feels when he gets hurt. It can’t be. The feeling in his chest, the worry-

 

It’s like waving his parents goodbye, clinging to Ben’s leg and hiding behind it. It’s the apprehension.

 

It’s like watching Ben bleed out. It’s the mindless panic and the fear and the nausea and- ugh.

 

He’s gonna try and stop getting injured, because if this is how Mr. Stark feels every time...

 

“Kid. Don’t cry.” The voice is quiet. Hoarse.

 

But that’s not what has his attention. Peter stares at his hands, shocked. He was crying…?

“Sorry.” He mumbles. His hands hurt. He’s pretty sure a knuckle’s healed in the wrong place and it’s gonna have to be broken again, but he’s just _worried._

“Don’t apologise, kid. Sorry for scaring you.” Peter looks at Tony. He’s a little pale, but he’s breathing. That’s good.

He sniffs. “It’s fine. I just- you scared me. Please don’t do that again.”

“I won’t, kiddo.”

 

Suddenly, he’s exhausted. Peter slumps down into one of the chairs at Mr. Stark’s bedside and closes his eyes, trying to make them stop aching.

 

He’s asleep before he can stop it. But Mr. Stark is rubbing his hair gently, and he knows they’re both alive, so Peter dares to hope that maybe he won’t have any nightmares tonight.

 

Hopefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big hug energy


	27. “I can’t walk.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rain on patrol is bad. Sun on patrol is good. Snow?
> 
> Snow!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im yeet

Peter blinks awake with the resounding knowledge that something is weird. Not in a bad way, but in a way that says ‘ _hey, maybe you wanna look outside?_ ’. His blood is running particularly cold this morning, in the kind of way that means he’s gonna have to layer up a lot if he wants to keep all four limbs today. Must be a cooler day, then. Well, winter is here, so… he should probably have anticipated this one coming.

 

So Peter throws off his comforter — shivering the whole time, _that_ was a mistake — and shakily stands up, stretches, and swipes open his curtain.

 

The streets are white. As in, not lightly powdered like it usually is around this time of year, but _blanketed._ As far as his eyes can see. He can’t remember having seen snow this bad in a long, long time. No wonder he felt like his blood was ice — the rest of the world is, too.

 

May’s at work today. Suddenly, Peter’s giddy. He’s never patrolled as Spider-Man before in the snow. He’s done it in the rain before, but not snow. Peter rushes through his morning routine and his breakfast before he slips into his suit and out of the window. He doesn’t usually patrol in daylight, but _snow_. His spidey-sense isn’t telling him about any onlookers either, so his identity isn’t at risk of being compromised.

 

Good.

 

Peter whoops as he starts swinging, enjoying every snowflake that falls to the ground. The air tastes earthy and vaguely metallic, each inhale is a wakeful shock to his chilled lungs. He fancies they could be frozen solid for how hard each breath is. Karen is definitely doing her job working the heater, but he can still feel the cold nipping at him. He still gets to watch each snowflake land on his suit as he swings, and a new one lands just after the first lands. There’s so much _snow_! The clouds are super slushy looking in the sky. The sun is long since gone behind them; it’s like the world’s fallen into a depressive haze, icy needles claiming the tips of his fingers where the heating is its weakest. Winter’s definitely latched its claws into the world — everything is so, so bright on his eyes, amber lights reflecting on the snow on the pavement and roads. It’s enchanting.

 

Peter lands on a building and perches. He has to stick his hands into the snow (he can’t help the childish glee that arises from the quiet _crunch_ the snow makes) to get a good balance, and it melts pretty quickly. Doesn’t mean his fingers don’t tingle through the chill. Peter rubs at his nose quickly. Maybe he’s coming down with something? The cold can’t be getting to him already.

 

Peter looks out onto the street. As he’s previously observed, the sun is absent in the sky. The snow clouds above New York are thick and looming. The darkness is heavy; a polar opposite to the street light-tinged snow. He stills. Tiny flakes of snow dance down from above, a graceful shower, and glint in the light before crashing down to the floor. It’s really graceful, like the kind he wants to be when he’s not this damn cold. Peter rubs his hands together. His breaths send foggy steam upwards, climbing at twirling into the frosty air before vanishing.

 

Numbing fingers pull him back from the polaroid stillness of the scene, and he leaps from the roof to start swinging again. Or he tries to. His legs are stiff and nearly useless as he swings. They complain loudly as he forces himself to keep moving. Being skinny — well, according to May and Mr. Stark — is terrible in the winter. Being part spider also sucks. He can’t keep himself warm anymore.

 

The cold frosts his insides with every breath. But Peter keeps swinging harshly against it, climbing higher and higher into the skies and the skyscrapers until he manages to perch on the side of the Empire State Building.

 

The view is breathtaking. New York (all of it) is blanketed in thick snow from rooftops to roads. He hadn’t heard anything about a storm like this on the news, so it must have been pretty sudden. He just hopes May is okay at work. Hopefully it should be lax — but it is snowy. There might be even more people going in.

 

Peter claps his hands together and rubs them. Oooh. It’s cold. Damn.

“What’s up today, Karen?”

 _‘There is a heavy snow advisory in effect for the next few days, Peter. I think there might be a slight decrease in crime.’_ Or maybe an increase, depending on how sucky people wanna be.

“Hopefully! Do you like the snow, Karen?” Peter looks down onto the streets. There’s so much of it! He can’t tell what time it is (he’s pretty sure it’s around midday by now, he had really crashed out hard last night. Maybe because of the cold. He hopes he can’t hibernate…), but it doesn’t look like the traffic is gonna clear up any time soon.

_‘I’ve never seen snow before, Peter. It looks interesting.’_

Peter gasps, and rests his palms on the building. There’s snow under his palms. “Oh my god, that’s… that’s so cool! Karen, can you focus on the sensors on my hands?”

 _‘Yes, I can. What for?’_ She sounds curious. Peter can’t stop himself from smiling.

Peter picks up a handful of the snow and turns it over in his hands, dropping it around. “This is snow! I figured this is the best thing you can get to feeling snow, unless Mr. Stark can build you a body like Vision’s.”

 _‘That’s very considerate, Peter. I will log these readings for the future.’_ Peter kicks his legs over the side of the building and happily shifts himself from side to side. That’s one major thing he’s helped with today.

“So, anything on the police radios? How’s the system updates working out?”

 

A while back, when he was using his homemade suit and tech, he had a police radio he had ‘found’ to monitor crimes as they happened. And now he has Karen. He’d only recently managed to update Karen’s system to be able to monitor those frequencies too, and it’s probably one of the best things he’s managed to do.

_‘Nothing’s happened yet. It looks like it’s going to be a calm day so far.’_

 

Peter looks down on New York. Yeah, it looks pretty calm.

 

———————

 

He’s sprinting now, flying over snow-covered rooftops with his legs disappearing up to his knees with every step.

“Karen, I thought you said ‘calm day’!” He gasps out, still trying to tail the guys who just robbed a goddamn jewellery shop. Like a proper cliche.

 _‘I had merely been predicting the likelihood that your day would be free of crimes. Sorry.’_ Her voice is kinda meek, and now he feels bad.

“It’s fine! I’m just-” He’s panting. It’s so hard to run in this snow. He can’t feel his hands and legs anymore. “-I’m just a little bit tired! These guys are fast!”

 _‘They are in a car, Peter. Maybe you should call Tony.’_ Peter shakes his head as he runs along the rooftop. No, he doesn’t need to call on Mr. Stark just yet. He’s gaining on the truck. In a few seconds…

 

Peter leaps from the roof onto the top of the van, landing with a heavy _thunk_ on the metal. He leans down and pokes his head to where the driver’s window is, and waves.

“Uh, I don’t know if you guys know, but today’s a snow day! Take the day off! You guys should go get a nice mug of hot chocolate-” They’re all yelling now. Peter continues, unperturbed. “I think the police would be more than happy to supply you- woah!” One of them pulls a gun on him, and yes, he has a small freak out moment. It’s just good that it’s so damn cold — nobody’s out here. So even though he covers the whole window in thick webbing, nobody gets hurt. The truck does, however pull a sharp corner in an attempt to throw him off.

 

Directly into a police blockade.

 

Peter huffs, pleased, and hops down from the roof of the truck. He strolls over to one of the police-people on the scene.

“You got this?” Peter sticks a thumb at the guys. The lady nods, eyes tired and nose red, before mumbling a quiet thanks and letting him swing off again.

 

As police interactions go, it’s not the worst he’s ever had. She seemed nice.

 

Peter finds a new perch on the side of an apartment complex, and stays there for a while. He’s a little tingly in the limbs, but otherwise he’s good. The cold isn’t really bothering him very much anymore.

 

Maybe that’s something he should have payed more attention to. He doesn’t. Instead, Peter starts trying to find more small crimes happening around NYC, bored. It’s not like he has any homework to do, anyway. It’s a little odd to be out patrolling with so much vigour when he can’t even feel his toes anymore. Ugh. And his spidey-sense is a constantly present, but very quiet, oddly enough, sensation in the back of his head.

 

Maybe the snow or the cold makes it just that little bit weaker? Who knows? His life is crazy enough, what’s another curveball?

 

Another curveball is the sudden influx of assholes from that point onwards. Armed robbery, purse theft, cat lost in a tree looking horrified by the snow, and…

 

And he can’t feel his goddamn anything.

 

Peter lands roughly on the roof of a building and slaps his hands together again. The impact is painful, like when your hands are cold and then you hit your knuckles on a door frame and your entire world becomes a pinprick revolving around your now-snapped fingers and _ow_.

 

Oh, coming out in the snow was a big mistake. Even with Karen running his heaters (not enough), he probably should wear a couple of layers over the suit next time.

 

Peter can hear repulsors approaching, but it’s muffled by the goddamn snow that’s still coming from the sky. His chest hurts, and his throat is itchy. Winter is just… weird, when you’re probably more than half of a spider in terms of genetic code.

 

And now he’s rambling. In his head. To nobody. This is a whole new low, even for him. He’s just-

“Hey, kiddo. Can you stand?” Mr. Stark is next to him, the snow under him melting away to slush then water because of the repulsors. Peter could literally stick his hands under the not-quite-fires.

“I’m on the floor-?” Peter looks down. Yes, he is. He’s gone through it. The snow is roughly halfway up to his knees.

“Yeah, you are. Why are you even out?”

“Uh, it’s snowing? C’mon, Mr. Stark, I’ve never been Spider-Man in snow like _this_ before. This is- this is a lot of snow. It’s dense. Thick. Thicc with two ‘c’s.” The faceplate flips up to reveal a slightly disbelieving, red nosed Tony Stark. Ah, winter. Peter just nods slightly.

“I don’t even want to know what that means, kid. C’mon, let’s get going. Rhodey’s making hot chocolate at the compound, we’re watching Christmas movies.” Actually, that sounds really nice. Basically what he and May do-

“Oooh, can May come up after work? She loves hot chocolate and lame movies. It’s like our tradition.” He can see Mr. Stark’s eyes softening at his proclamation.

“I’m sorry, ‘lame’?

“All Christmas movies are lame. That’s why they’re good.”

“This is technically blasphemy, but alright. C’mon, let’s go.”

“I can’t walk! I can’t even stand! Carry me, Mr. Stark.” Peter is very aware that he’s being a whiny little kid right now, but also he hasn’t been able to feel his body for like seven hours and also… he’s lazy… moving is hard anyways, even when he actually has legs. Mr. Stark rolls his eyes and scoops him up (Peter nestles into the heated exterior of the suit) before taking off in the direction of the compound.

“You alive down there, spiderbaby?”

 _“Mr. Stark.”_ He tries to make his voice sound as offended as possible, raising one numb hand to his chest. “How could you?”

“Spiderbaby? Spiderbaby. Does it bother you?” Peter squints. He can nearly hear Mr. Stark smirking.

“Don’t at me. I will- I will do the thing.”

“What?”

“If I’m the spiderbaby, you’re the _irondad_. Deal with it.”

“I thought you knew this one. Seriously, have the last, what, six chapters not been enough for you?”

Peter shakes his head slightly and watches New York blurring below him, still snow-blanketed and very, very cold. They’re getting close to the compound now.

 

And then they’re landing, and Peter’s got pins and needles tingling across his entire body. Gently, Mr. Stark places him down on the floor-

 

And his legs buckle immediately. His forearms are the only things that stop him from eating the snow, and even then he just rolls over so he’s facing the sky.

“Kid-!” He’s scooped up again.

“Just a bit of… maybe mild hypothermia… I dunno.” The arms holding him tighten. Peter can recognise the halls passing; they’re walking towards the common room. It’s a good thing Rhodey and Vision already know who he is — he’s still wearing his suit, and guessing from the hypothermia, he’s gonna be in it until he can feel his entire body again. Maybe patrolling in the snow for the whole damn day wasn’t the best of ideas.

“Okay, that’s a blanket fort sentence of forty years.” He’s dumped roughly onto the couch that is definitely his now, given by the fact that he’s always on it, and immediately has at least three, four blankets on him. That’s fine. Peter burrows into them and gratefully takes the steaming mug of hot chocolate that’s passed to him. It’s still much too hot for him to drink, but it’s fine, because it should be fending off the maybe-frostbite in his fingers.

 

He can’t tell what movie is on, but he’s very quickly getting drowsy. Constantly patrolling has been just a little bit too hard on him today. Peter makes half an attempt to slowly drink his hot chocolate, but only manages to get through about half of it before he’s slumping over, someone is taking it out of his hands, and the blankets are being tucked up to his chin.

 

Peter dozes off with the lame Christmas movie music playing in the background.

 

(He feels himself being reorganised later on before his head is on someone’s lap, and guessing from the softness of the hands in his hair, May took up on Mr. Stark’s offer. He smiles lopsidedly.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> paying no mind to the fourth wall


	28. Severe Illness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Threats and active murder people aren't the only things Tony has to worry about trying to kill Peter. Sometimes it's those teeny tiny pathogenic fucks that get the kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i called a disease a pathogenic fuck
> 
> AN: and i now know about the geographical inaccuracies regarding new york and california, so i'm just gonna ask you to polite ignore the fucking huge distance between them because 1. i rushed the chapter and couldn't do all my research and 2. i'm not a US native fjhsc
> 
> forgive me pls

“Honestly, you’ve been pretty quiet today. You good?” Tony looks to the back seat of his car (FRIDAY’s co-piloting, it’s fine) to where Peter is sat, knees pulled up to his chest. He looks tired. Maybe it was a rough patrol last night. Peter looks up to him and nods slightly before letting his head rest against the window again. 

 

Tony won’t lie, the odd behaviour is a little concerning, but his kid’s a crime fighting, half-spider vigilante, so weird is probably normal. Right?

 

Anyway. 

 

The only reason they’re even in a car in the first place is because, given that May is currently on a nice, well-deserved vacation, Tony decided to take Peter up to the Malibu penthouse, recently reconstructed and standing at its former glory once again. He doesn’t want the kid to feel too cooped up in the compound; the change in location might be a pleasant thing. 

 

Throughout the rest of the journey up, Tony keeps looking backwards at Peter, just to make sure he’s okay. The kid  _ has _ been known to keep his health quiet until it’s at a critical point, so it’s probably for the best to make sure he isn’t about to do something drastic, like dying. The kid’s drowsy and looks a little peaky and flushed for the majority of the journey. Maybe he’s coming down with something. 

“You okay, kid? You’re not looking so good over there.” Peter looks up at him. Tony can’t tell if the flush on his cheeks is from embarrassment or fever. 

“Hm? Oh, I- I get a little carsick on long journeys, and… yeah…”

 

Oh. That- that makes sense. They have been in the car for a while. And with Peter’s enhanced senses, this probably sucks. Yikes. Tony presses down a little harder on the gas, if only just to reduce the amount of time Peter has to spend feeling like shit. Tony doesn’t have enhanced senses; he can’t even begin to understand what it’s gotta be like, being able to feel and hear everything. The scenery is still beautiful, even as they pick up the speed, and it seems to be an adequate distraction for Peter — the kid’s eyes are wide as he stares out the window. Tony sometimes forgets that Peter hasn’t really seen much outside of Queens and New York. This is almost certainly his first time along the Malibu coastline. 

 

He knows Peter has a taste for photography. Maybe the kid might like to wonder about the place at some point. 

 

When they finally pull up to the mansion, Tony hops out and grabs his bags from the trunk. They’re not staying long enough to require too much luggage, and the penthouse is already stocked up for the most part — it has been since he rebuilt it after the Mandarin’s attack. Maybe not quite fully equipped for a spider-child who needs to eat an amount proportionate to multiple grown people’s intake, but still — that’s what takeout is for, right?

 

Peter yawns as he steps out of the car, stretching slightly. He still looks pretty groggy. But he walks over and takes his bags anyway, hefting then over his shoulder with ease. 

 

Right. Super strength. You wouldn’t guess just by looking at the kid — he needs to eat more, he’s been verging on too-skinny recently — that he can bench a truck, but he can, and that’s never gonna stop being weird to Tony. The ability doesn’t stick — hah — with Peter’s meek nature. 

 

He shakes his head and walks into the mansion. It’s almost exactly the same as when it got blown to high hell, and Peter is almost instantly in awe of it. 

 

The compound might be magnificent, and Stark Tower is too, but they’ve got nothing on the mansion. 

“Whoa…” Peter stretches once again, and winces a little. Definitely coming down with something. Or maybe he took a few more hits than normal on patrol. Tony gives a slight frown, but doesn’t mention the odd behaviour. 

“Whoa indeed, kiddo. Forgot how nice this place is.” It’s true. He’s been so caught up in work recently, and this place is a real trip down memory lane. 

“Where do I put my stuff…?”

“Oh, right. FRIDAY’ll tell you in a sec, just let her integrate into the place. There hasn’t been an AI here since JARVIS. All the framework is still here, just…”

_ ‘I’m in. Hi, boss.’ _ Comes the feminine voice from the ceilings. It’s kind of upsetting to hear, though — the last AI in this place  _ was _ JARVIS, and he misses the AI dearly. Vision… Vision isn’t JARVIS, nor does Tony expect him to be, but it’s hard not to miss one of the few constants in your formative years. 

“Hey, FRI. Comfy?”

_ ‘The mainframe’s a little outdated, but I can make do.’ _ He huffs, amused, and chucks his bags onto a nearby couch. Peter looks at him and holds his bags up.

“Uh- my room?”

“You can take whichever one you want, Pete. In fact- take the one with the best view. You’ll love it.” Peter’s eyes widen, undoubtedly picturing the view already, and he opens his mouth to protest. Tony raises a hand to stop him.

“Nope, that room’s yours. Have FRIDAY show you around. I’m gonna go set up in the labs.” Tony waves a hand vaguely in Peter’s direction, playfully mouthing  _ shoo _ until the kid huffs and moves for the stairs.

 

He picks up his bags again. He knows the bots are at home; at the compound. But it’ll still be nice to work in his lab again. After all, it is the one he spent the most time in growing up.

“It’s nice to be home.”

 

* * *

 

Tony comes back from the labs within two hours, and he’s overjoyed. It’s exactly the same as it was before, down to every last detail (minus DUM-E and U). He would spend more time down there if it weren’t for the fact that he has a potentially ill kid to take care of. So, after reluctantly patting his workshop goodbye, he makes his way back up to the main room. And, as expected, Peter is perched on the couch and admiring the view. The kid is so distracted he doesn’t even seem to notice Tony sneaking up behind him, and-

 

Peter’s on the ceiling a split second after Tony’s hand makes contact with his shoulders, looking about wildly until his eyes lock on Tony. The kid squints, then flops backward onto the couch again. Tony can’t help but laugh — for a superhero with a literal danger sense, it’s still endearingly easy to mess with Peter. But still, he came up on a mission.

“You good, kid?” Peter looks up at him. He’s not as pale as he was, but still doesn’t quite look 100% good.

 

But that might be because of what Rhodey dubbed, in peals of laughter after he had literally dragged Peter to his room to ‘get some goddamn sleep’, the ‘dad goggles’.

 

_ Dad goggles. _

 

(He froze every lift Rhodey was in that day in retaliation.)

 

“Yeah- why wouldn’t I be?”

“Your carsickness…? Just making sure you’re not gonna blow chunks on the carpet.”

Peter makes a face. “That… that’s literally the  _ worst _ metaphor I’ve heard for vomiting. I don’t wanna hear that ever again.”

“Well, if you’re not gonna blow chunks-” He says it specifically to get at Peter, who chucks a throw pillow at him (hard), “I’ll go order a takeout. Pizza?”

Peter’s eyes widen slightly. Hungry, then. “Definitely pizza. Lots of pepperoni. All of it. Oh- can we get the chicken strips, too?”

“Sure thing, kid. While you’re at it, you wanna eat my paycheck?” Instead of being embarrassed like Tony half expects him to be, Peter just meets his gaze dead on and nods.

“Depends how much food it’s worth.”

“Mr. Parker. Are you telling me my money is a fridge to you?” He makes sure to lay on the mock-horror real thick in his voice so Peter knows he’s joking, then-

“Well, you and May both tell me I gotta eat more, so I’m reaping the benefits. You can’t tell me to eat more then not gimme the food.” Tony blinks. He’s- he just got thoroughly beat in a verbal sparring session. Peter looks decidedly smug for a usually-passive kid.

 

Rhodey would definitely title the warm-happy feeling in his chest as ‘dad pride’ or something equally sappy and gross.

 

“You’ve got me in a box. Damn it, I can’t tell Rhodey I just lost an argument to a kid.” He hears Peter make a victorious noise.

“I can!” He ignores how eager Peter sounds. In fact, he’s slightly nervous to think of just how much blackmail the kid probably has on everyone, with his super hearing. Tony brushes that thought aside and ruffles Peter’s hair lightly, delighting in the mortified screech that escapes the kid.

“I’ll get your pizza, spiderling.”

 

He gets another pillow to the face for his effort. Peter’s laughing the whole time.

 

Tony doesn’t really notice how Peter winces after every sharp movement; it’s hidden so well under a mask of wellness that he misses all the signs staring him dead in the face.

 

When the pizza arrives, Peter doesn’t eat as much as normal. As in, he still eats an amount large enough to make most grown men enter a full-blown food coma, but it’s less than he eats usually. Now he acknowledges the sensation in his chest as concern. The kid’s still hyper aware and incredibly interested in his surrounding, but he seems a little more off than he was a few hours ago, and much more tired than normal.

 

Tony frowns. Peter’s still eating, albeit much more slowly than usual. He makes a mental note to keep a closer eye on the kid. 

 

He makes sure the kid hits the hay early, and cleans up the mess from the food alone. Peter seemed relieved to be heading to sleep. Maybe he’s just tired, that’s all. Maybe the kid just needs to catch up on lost sleep.

 

Maybe.

 

(His brain spends the whole night telling him he’s missing something big.)

 

* * *

 

When he wakes up, before the sunrise like he’s trained himself to do, he immediately makes his way down to the main room with the best view to watch the sun crest over the ocean. It’s an old instinct, one that’s been molded by years or repetition and some of his happier memories. He sips a glass of water the whole time, and when the water starts glittering is when he relaxes the most. It’s nice to be back in Malibu. The atmosphere is so much lighter than the compound or even Stark Tower.

 

It lightens up even more when Peter walks in.

 

On the ceiling.

 

Maybe it’s because the kid knows his identity is at no risk right now (one-way glass means no paparazzi can chance their arms here), or maybe it’s because he just feels more comfortable right now, but the fact that he’s allowing his instincts to have their reign here makes his chest go warm. The kid’s bleary and his hair is a mess, he’s stuck in a yawn and still moving. Then he blinks down at Tony and gives a small wave.

“Mornin’, Mr. Stark.” Tony has to wonder what the sunrise looks like to Peter right now. He wonders if it’s weird to see, or if it just feels natural to him.

“Morning, kid. Did you sleep?” 

“Uh huh. Comfy bed.” Tony laughs quietly. It’s still funny to him that Peter’s so amazed by such simple things, but he supposes it’s just because the kid isn’t used to having so much available to him.

 

It’s kind of painful to think that Peter was so used to just surviving that he hadn’t known luxury until the internship.

 

Peter swings down from the ceiling, stumbling roughly on his feet when he lands. Tony rushes to offer an arm to steady the kid, concerned at the quiet hiss of pain.

“You alright…?” 

“Must have pulled something.” Peter’s still wearing a wince from the fall, one hand haltingly raised to his abdomen. Given he did just jump from the ceiling… 

“Okay, kid.”

 

Tony makes sure they take it easy for the whole day. Doesn’t make Peter lift anything too heavy, or even consider asking of it. He calls it a ‘think tank’ day, but really, he’s just worried. Especially when Peter starts looking kind of flushed at about midday, and prefers staying still over moving around. It’s like he’s tired and dozing off, but that inkling of doubt is in bloom now and he’s pretty sure something’s wrong.

“Kid, are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“Jus’ tired, Mis’er Stark. Think I ate somethin’ bad.” The statement is followed up with a cough, almost as if proving a point, and Peter hunches over violently to clutch at his side. Tony’s eyes widen as he rushes over to help the kid up.

“ _ Shit, _ are you-  _ no _ , you’re not okay. Please be honest with me — do you think we should get this checked out, or do you think it’ll blow over?” His concern is probably super obvious in his eyes, but he’s long since stopped caring if Peter sees his emotions. God knows the kid isn’t gonna hurt him intentionally. 

 

To his credit, Peter does spend a few minutes thinking the decision over, but it’s still the response Tony was expecting. 

“I think I’ll be fine. Maybe I should just have some water.” Tony is only more than happy to oblige, and hands the kid the glass.

 

Peter’s pale, but his cheeks are flushed and the bags under his eyes are unnervingly prominent. He’s drinking the water like he’s only just managing it.

 

Something’s very, very wrong. 

 

He might cut their Malibu trip short if this persists.

 

Car sickness, persistent pain in abdomen, fever, lethargy… It’s not adding up, and it’s definitely not just food poisoning.

 

Peter turns in early again.

 

Tony’s gut is telling him he’s missing something huge.

 

* * *

 

FRIDAY cuts his sleep short, and everything he’s had doubts about comes to a head.

_ ‘Boss, Peter is in great distress. His vitals-’ _

 

Tony’s up, fully dressed and sprinting towards Peter’s room within seconds. Fuck. Peter- He should have kept a closer eye on this. He sprints through hallways and corridors as fast as he can, and FRIDAY’s already opened the door for him when he gets there.

 

He slams to a halt, panic still rearing its ugly head up in his chest.

 

_ Great distress _ doesn’t do what he’s seeing justice. The kid looks like a trainwreck, all flushed and visibly running some crazy high fever. He’s sweating and shivering at the same time, and Tony can’t reconcile the quiet, introverted behaviour from earlier with what he’s seeing now. Tony shuffles over and nudges Peter arm, only just stopping himself from recoiling at the too-high fever coursing through his kid’s veins.

 

Peter blinks awake groggily, eyes clouded by fever, and grabs his arm.

“M-my stomach hurts.”

 

Tony stares, old knowledge suddenly clouding his mind.

“Where does it hurt, kid? Can you point to it?” He can’t quite remember what this question is going to tell him, but he shakes the kid back to awareness anyways. Peter sluggishly points to lower-right hand side.

 

Tony curses.

 

He curses because he remembers. He remembers when Rhodey was hospitalised at MIT and it had scared the shit out of him, and he’d only found the name of the mysterious ailment after he’d come out of surgery.

 

No wonder he’s been doubting Peter’s symptoms this whole time — one doesn’t forget when a friend brushes with appendicitis.

“FRIDAY?” 

_ ‘Yep. I think you should get him back to the compound. His fever’s at 105ºF and climbing.’ _ Fuck.

 

He only completely agrees. He can have Happy come around to pick up their stuff later — they don’t have time to pack their stuff back up.

 

Because from what he can remember, once appendicitis gets past a certain point it can become lethal.

 

A spanner is effectively thrown into the works when he moves to pick Peter up and the kid makes a panicked noise, waving him off quickly and harshly. His breathing is heavy and sharp, and definitely too quick to be healthy-

 

Peter pales. Tony knows that paling from one too many hangovers, the kid’s gonna-

 

Even when Peter makes another hurt noise, Tony helps the kid into the bathroom because he knows what’s about to happen and he knows the kid doesn’t want to get vomit anywhere unnecessarily. 

 

He’s right. All Tony can do for the kid while he’s stuck miserably over the toilet is rub small circles into the kid’s back and hopes it stops soon. God, why is it always Peter getting screwed over by the universe? Not that he wants appendicitis, but he’d take it if it got the kid a goddamn break.

 

Eventually, Peter slumps, and Tony only just catches him before he hits the floor. There’s still blankets tangled around the kid, so Tony covers the kid in them again and gives him a few minutes to calm down before moving again. Peter cries out in pain when Tony scoops him up, still swathed in his blanket, and grips harshly on his own arm. Tony knows it’s because, on some level, Peter still doesn’t want to hurt him and he knows he can’t control his strength. How the infection progressed this far in such a short time… 

 

It breaks his heart that the penthouse isn’t equipped to help lessen Peter’s fever or pain, and the kid definitely needs it right now — he’s nearly delirious by now. They weren’t ready for this; there’s no antipyretics, antibiotics, painkillers or doctors on site to help the kid.

 

They’re gonna have to drive all the way back to the compound the get Peter treatment. 

“FRIDAY, lock down.” The command is harried, and the second he steps out of the penthouse, Tony knows there’s no hope of anyone getting in unauthorised. Good. 

 

He gets to the car, and hastily straps Peter in to the back seats (the aircon might lower his fever, hopefully) before clambering into the driver’s seat and quickly pulling out of the driveway. He can hear Peter mumbling quietly to himself; babbling nonsensical things to nobody. Peter’s just… incoherent. It’s upsetting to watch.

 

He’s already definitely breaking the speed limit, but as soon as Peter starts crying about the pain and he’s just- filled with a desperation he hasn’t known in a long, long time. He’s never really been comfortable around crying children anyways, but now it’s his kid, and now it’s  _ his _ kid that’s crying it’s different. If it weren’t for the fact that he’d have to stop the car, he’d try to reassure the kid.

 

But he can’t.

 

So Tony presses down on the gas and definitely breaks more road-speed laws in the process, because all he can see in the rear mirror is Peter crying and being in so much pain that he can’t take away and-

 

He hates this.

“Ben…” The quiet mumble is a punch in the stomach. If he could make this car go any goddamn faster, he would, but he can’t, and he can’t reassure his kid even if FRIDAY is co-piloting the car because of the goddamn space restrictions-

 

He’s freaking out.

 

Cars. Roads. Moon. Steering wheel. Car door.

 

The leather seat under his fingers. The wheel in his other hand. Himself on the seat. The faint aircon on his face.

 

Purring of the engine. His breathing. His fingers drumming rhythmically.

 

The fresh smell in the car (pine?). Motor oil lingering on his shirt.

 

The aftertaste of mint toothpaste.

 

He’s not freaking out so much now. Tony sucks in each breath evenly, holds it, then lets it go. He can’t help Peter if he accidentally lets the car crash.

 

The rest of the journey is spent under this false sense of calm. Peter stops mumbling about halfway through. His eyes are still open, but they’re hooded and Tony knows he’s only just clinging onto consciousness right now.

 

And then, after god knows how long, they’re at the compound and he’s basically throwing himself out of the car to get to Peter.

 

Peter doesn’t even make a noise when he’s scooped up again. Tony watches the grip the kid has on his own wrist turn white-knuckled, and he thinks he might even hear a muffled noise that definitely isn’t natural. The kid’s sucking in each breath like it’s going to be his last, and that’s the only way Tony really knows Peter is still there mentally. Because he’s hurting so, so bad.

“FRIDAY, take the car, I have to go.” He doesn’t wait for a response, he just starts his run over to medical and ignores how Peter has shuffled so that he’s clutching his side. It’s super early, he knows, but he’s banking on the fact that FRIDAY sent Helen a message before their departure to be ready for them.

 

He’s right. When he rounds the last corner, Helen is already there with a stretcher waiting for them and he’s so, so panicked and he can’t breathe and his chest is breaking and Peter isn’t moving anymore and-

 

Peter’s taken out of his arms. Everything goes black seconds later.

 

* * *

 

_ Beep. Beep. Beep. _

 

The fuck…?

 

_ Beep. Beep. Beep. _

 

What?

 

_ Beep. Beep. Beep. _

 

He fucking hates that noise.

 

Blearily, Tony opens his eyes and forces himself upright, despite how there are hands trying to push him back down. They can wait until they’ve come into focus.

“Tony, sit your ass back down  _ right now _ .” That’s- that’s Pepper’s voice. He thought Pepper was on a- a company thing…? He lets his eyes focus on Pepper until she focuses up into a very pretty, very angry clear image.

“What?” He mumbles.

“You’re goddamn lucky you didn’t have a heart attack, you idiot!” He didn’t? Huh.

“Why ‘m’I here then?”

“You passed out. You got Peter to Helen, then you collapsed on the floor.” Suddenly, everything flashes back to him. Appendicitis. Peter. Fuck.

“Monitors?” He croaks.

“A formality. You’ve got too long a history of heart problems to risk it.” Oh, makes sense. Okay.

“Peter?”

“He’s fine. May’s with him. They got his appendix out without any complications, luckily. You got here in the nick of time, apparently.” Tony relaxes into the hospital bed and covers his eyes. Okay. Good. The kid’s alive and well.

“Am I good to see him?”

“Helen knew you’d say that.” Pepper laughs quietly. It’s a nice sound. “She says yes, just don’t exert yourself for a while.”

 

Those are okay terms. He just needs- he just has to make sure Peter’s okay. And see it with his own eyes. Pepper helps him stand up slowly, and keeps him upright while they walk through the hospital wing. He’s exhausted, and apparently Pepper knows that, because she walks much more slowly than Tony knows she can. That’s true love, right there.

 

When he pushes the door open, he’s greeted by a relaxed looking Peter and May’s questioning stare.

“No offense, Tony, but you look like crap.” Pepper snorts quietly from beside him. Tony plasters on a look of mock-offense anyway, and drops into one of the hospital chairs.

“I’m gonna get back to work, you wonderful, stupid, self-sacrificing idiot. Try not to die while I’m gone, Tony.” Pepper plants a kiss on his cheek, and Tony keeps contact with her hand for as long as possible before she leaves. 

“You two are cute.” It’s a funny observation, especially from a usually-reserved Parker. Or maybe that’s just Peter — May’s never had a problem calling him out on things.

“I should hope so.” Tony answers. So what? He’s smitten.

 

He can nearly feel May’s amusement from where he is, so he turns his focus to Peter. He looks okay, which is bizarre given that the last time he saw the kid he was hallucinating.

 

Actually, that reminds him.

“He keeps… he keeps thinking I’m Ben when he’s really hurt or sick and- how did Ben act like?” Tony turns his focus to the other Parker in the room.

May looks surprised by his line of questioning, but then her expression melts into something much fonder.

“Well, Ben… he was Peter’s best friend. After Ned, obviously. But they were close, and there was nothing they didn’t tell each other…”

 

Tony and May spend hours talking to each other, and with Peter safe between them…

 

It feels like family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sappy end bc i'm a sap


	29. Seizure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why does it have to be so goddamn hot?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this! is! late! 
> 
> featuring! hugs!

The fan moves slowly from side to side. Peter watches, kinda amused, as Mr. Stark almost instinctively follows the cool breeze as it moves, sighing in relief when the air brushes against his forehead. It’s probably a pretty nice feeling, to be honest, and while he doesn’t mind the aircon, the fan looks great too. He didn’t even think it was possible to be so goddamn overheated (or to sweat this much), but here he is now, probably dying from the sheer heat.

 

They’re back in California again, and it’s been about two months (surprisingly, chaotic-event free) since the whole appendicitis incident that made Mr. Stark have to leave early. They’ve been up here for a few days now, and it’s been pretty nice so far. They’ve been to zuma beach — a little too noisy and chaotic for his senses, but the otherwise he loved it — and wandered about the city, admiring the scenery and taking photos for May when he gets back. That was all been fine and of a bearable temperature. But now? It’s so. Goddamn. Hot. Even he’s been feeling the heat (and he’s just shy of completely cool-blooded) and been more lethargic than normal, so that’s gotta mean something.

 

The fan moves again, and so does Mr. Stark. Peter stifles a laugh. The heat wave is a little unexpected, given the time of year, and it’s definitely thrown him off guard. It’s been too hot to work with Mr. Stark in the labs; it’s too hot to even try and think.

 

It’s just… too damn hot.

 

Peter groans from where he’s sat on the couch, upside down, sipping from a sports bottle of water so it doesn’t spill on his face. Everything’s too hazy to think past the immediate discomfort his body is in, and he’s exhausted — it had been so hot that he outright couldn’t make himself sleep last night. He’d flip the pillow over to its cool side, and then it’d heat up within seconds and send him back to the same hell he was in before. He’s eaten a little and had tons of water since — literally, he’s had about six bottles since lunch alone — to ward off any dehydration that might sink in it’s claws. 

 

Peter is well aware that the amount of times he’s been injured in some way over the past year is absolutely insane, and definitely isn’t trying to invite the dangers in. If anything, he’s doing everything he can to prevent further incidents. 

 

Peter sips on the bottle again and looks out the window onto the horizon. The sun is bright to a point where he has to actively shield his eyes from the glare, and even then it’s difficult to squint out the huge glass window. It’s still pretty to admire, though. 

 

The day moves almost torturously slowly. It’s probably because they’re doing literally nothing, but it’s still not fun to be stuck doing nothing and trying to wait out the sun. 

 

Peter groans again, more loudly, and Tony spares him an amused look. 

“You alright there, Underoos?” Tony asks. His voice is a little croaky to Peter’s ears, but his is too, so… ugh. 

“I want to blow up the sun. It’s too hot.”

“You know we’d all die, right?” Peter turns his head to look at Mr. Stark, hair dragging along the floor. 

“Added bonus.” The comment earns a snort. 

 

And then it’s silent again. 

 

He knows he’s been a little quiet all day, but his brain is honestly cooking in his head and it’s gross. It’s not completely intolerable (yet), but moving around to make sure he doesn’t dehydrate to death has definitely exacerbated the whole drowning-in-sweat issue. Peter makes a face. 

 

He blinks as the hairs on the back of his neck rise up. Then he looks around sharply. He can’t quite tell why his heartbeat’s just picked up or why his anxiety is skyrocketing, but-

 

“Mr. Stark…?” The tone of his voice probably comes across as quite brittle, but something’s about to go wrong and there’s nothing obvious to cause it. His expression pinches when another wave washes over him, and he can’t quite make his mouth form words properly. He can feel himself sweating bullets, and- ugh- he stands up sharply. 

 

Mr. Stark stands up in response, gaze concerned, and Peter’s almost reassured before-

 

Tony crumples to the floor. Peter straightens his posture, admittedly shitting himself, and ducks down to Tony’s side where his eyes are slightly opened but he’s otherwise completely out of it. Okay. He can work with this. What would May do? 

 

Peter’s starting the breathing exercises that are second nature when Mr. Stark’s limbs start twitching, and then he’s thrashing. Peter’s eyes widen and he scrambles to pin each limb down. 

 

_ Febrile seizure…? _ He’s just- he just needs to keep him from hurting himself. Wait, no, he should- uh- how does he put someone into the recovery position, fuck- He needs to keep his goddamn head clear, not whatever mess this is, and-

 

It’s decidedly hard to focus when the closest thing you have to a dad is seizing under your grip. It sickens him to see Mr. Stark’s eyes roll back as he seizes — as in, he only just manages not to recoil in shock and freak out completely. Instead, with hands that are much clumsier than normal, Peter fumbles to rearrange the older man’s limbs into a mockery of a recovery position.

 

And he waits.

 

Peter’s torn between wanting to help and wanting to cry — it’s his instinct to try and help however he can, but he’s had quite enough of watching people suffer and this is really, really disturbing and-

 

The seizure slowly comes to a halt, and then the room is silent again. Peter has a moment of dread, a moment of  _ oh god what if he’s- _ before he focuses on his hearing again, and 

 

_ Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Thu-thump. _

 

Peter flops backwards, hard, onto the painfully solid floor. The impact knocks the air clean out of his lungs, but it’s worth it because Mr. Stark is definitely 100% not dead and that’s a huge relief.

“Jesus christ, Mr. Stark, if you wanted more water you could have just let me know.” Peter can’t help the shakiness in his arms and hands as he speaks, almost definitely because of the adrenaline crash he’s gracelessly riding out. He feels a slight tightening of the grip on his arm, and lets the rigidity bleed out of his posture quickly as he releases the limb. 

 

Yeah, maybe California just… doesn’t agree with him. Or maybe his Parker luck is just stronger here, who knows. 

 

But he knows that he can’t focus on his bad luck streak now. He should probably get Mr. Stark to the newly installed, closest thing they have to a medical room. He knows that seizures are bad. He should definitely try to stop that from happening again. He scoops up Mr. Stark and starts walking to the nearly-a-medical-room. He’s still a step away from overheating himself, but he’s pretty sure he’ll be fine.

“Uh, FRIDAY? What do I do?” 

_ ‘Take Boss to the medbay. You may need to administer an IV-’ _ Peter cringes.  _ ‘-and place ice packs at hot spots on the body.’ _

“That’s- those are the neck and armpits, right?”

_ ‘Yes. I can guide you through it, if you’d like.’ _ Peter nods to himself, suddenly exhausted.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

 

He can still feel Mr. Stark’s heartbeat, strong and steady, as he walks. It’s relieving, like when he’s really stressed out after a patrol and he gets hugs from May. When he gets to the makeshift medical room, he rests Mr. Stark down on the plush bed and rummages through the freezer for the ice packs. The cold air is nice, but the packs themselves are definitely too cold for his hands. He wraps them in towels and rest them gently at Tony’s armpits and at the crook of his neck. The fact that FRIDAY hasn’t pressed him to put an IV in is encouraging, and Peter clambers up onto the ceiling while he waits for Mr. Stark to regain consciousness fully.

 

He’s not kept waiting for long.

“...kid…?” Peter looks down sharply in response to the croak, and stares Tony dead in the face until both eyes open. In fact, Peter makes a point of standing up from his position on the ceiling to emphasise just how close he was to having a stroke from stress.

“Next time you wanna have a seizure,  _ don’t. _ Seriously. I honestly think I had a heart attack, and- just- don’t.” Peter gesticulates wildly as he speaks. He’s not mad at Mr. Stark, he’s just-

 

Pretty upset, actually, because he had to see that. Now Peter understands why he and May get so panicked when he’s hurt. It’s a horrible experience.

 

Peter sits back down on the ceiling and runs both hands through his hair.

“Sorry, kid. Didn’t think…” Peter deflates, unable to retain his anger. He’s never been able to stay mad at people, especially family.

“It’s fine. Just don’t do it again.” Tony groans slightly as he sits upright, dropping the cool packs onto the bedside table before lying back down again.

“I won’t. C’mere, kiddo.” He slinks down off the ceiling, landing neatly in a crouch before standing fully upright and sidling up to Tony on the bed. He doesn’t usually try to initiate hugs if it’s Mr. Stark who’s hurt, because generally the man needs his space, but it’s like he can tell just how shaken up Peter is right now because there’s a hand in his hair and-

 

He relaxes a little.

“G’night, kiddo.”

“Night, dad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me floundering as we approach day 31


	30. Caregiver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Peter's immune system can actually not be crappy sometimes.
> 
> The same can't be said for his friends. Who knew that spending time with people meant sharing common colds?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> crappy chapter is crappy because i'm in horrible pain. fuckin braces

The day starts out pretty nicely. When he wakes up, it’s not too hot or too cold, which is cool, and Peter actually manages to eat breakfast (for once). May’s at work already, and will be until later on, but he still manages to brush up the apartment and make everything tidy and clean before finally making his way out of the apartment and to school. It just means he has less to do later on when he drags Ned and MJ over for their weekly study session / movie night thing. He doesn’t know how it became like a tradition from them, but it has. Junk food and all, it’s definitely something enjoyable.

 

Peter shakes his head and stretches his limbs upwards, revelling in the lack of discomfort. What’s even cooler is, he’s not got any injuries from last night’s patrol. For once, he feels pretty comfortable and confident in his abilities and his own skin, and he’s determined to keep a hold on that feeling. The huge crowds flocking to the busy entrance of the school doesn’t grate on his senses as much as usual, either. So all in all, today’s starting out pretty well for him (weirdly enough).

 

He wonders if the way he’s holding himself up is the reason Flash doesn’t call out any taunts in the hallway. He can’t find it in himself to contemplate it though. He’s happy. He’s not gonna let Flash change that. He slides into his first class (on time!) and settles in comfortably. He would have preferred to have chemistry or biology first over English, but hey-ho. He opens his book, and lets himself disappear into his work.

 

When it first happens, he’s about halfway through the class — his enhanced hearing easily catches a quiet sniffle the second it rings out in the classroom. Peter looks around to the spot the source of the noise. He doesn’t have to search for long.

 

MJ, eyes ringed with deep bags and hair slightly less tame than normal, stares back at him. She looks absolutely  _ exhausted, _ like she hasn’t slept in weeks. Peter winces sympathetically. He knows that feeling a little too well. He can see her flipping him off (not with intent to offend, he can tell by the lack of sharpness in the gesture) out of the corners of his vision. He shrugs and turns back to his book, jotting down a quick note about whatever the hell they’re meant to be learning. 

 

It’s kinda weird, because usually he’s the one who’s battered or bleeding internally or ill in class. Actually, Peter isn’t sure he’s ever seen MJ sick before. He was- he was actually pretty sure she was some kind of immortal, but… apparently not. He’s got half a mind to offer some tissues from the packet he always keeps in his bag, but he doesn’t want to draw attention to the fact. He knows he wouldn’t like his illness to be made obvious if it were him, so he’ll just have to be discrete about it. He turns back to his work, but his mind is only half on whatever they’re doing.

 

And then, as soon as his nose is firmly buried in his work again, there’s a small cough, hastily muffled by a sleeve. Peter’s posture straightens as he tries to turn around again. MJ (looking slightly annoyed with her sleeve at her nose) just points over somewhere else. It wasn’t her? Peter follows her point, and his eyes land on Ned.

 

Also looking slightly pale. Peter feels a moment of sympathy for his friends — for both of them to obviously be ill at the same time has gotta suck. Maybe all those junk-food-movie nights have just been spreading around whichever illness they both seemingly have. And it’s kinda nice to see that his super-immune system is finally doing its damn job. Guess he’s just gonna have to subtly help them both out, right? It’s about time he started to take care of them like they’ve taken care of him.

 

Besides, May’s at work basically all day, and it’s meant to be one of their hangout nights again. If he’s gotta, he’ll drag them both there. Peter knows that MJ and Ned are just as stubborn as he is, and they’ll just insist that they’re fine until they’re not. 

 

Peter turns back to his work again, the beginnings of a plan forming in his head. He’s got friends to take care of. He just really, really hopes he’s not gonna have to pull what Mr. Stark has called the ‘puppy-dog eyes’ on them to get them to not die (mostly on Ned, he knows that look works on Ned).

 

When the bell signalling break rings, he subtly hands both of them a tissue and acts like nothing of importance has happened. He’s been ill enough times to understand how the process should work — he’s just gotta play it off like it’s no big deal, and it should all go smoothly.

 

And it does, surprisingly. He offers them help as unobtrusively as he can throughout the day, and he’s pretty sure he’s doing okay on the whole ‘taking care of your friends who are too stubborn to admit they’re sick’ thing.

 

With a little flush of self-consciousness, Peter realises he makes this a whole lot harder for them by being exclusively stupid in regards to his own health. Yeah, he’ll ease up on how stubborn he gets next time he’s ill.

 

When it’s finally time for the school to allow them to escape, Peter basically drags them both by the arm in the direction of his apartment. It’s windy out. He doesn’t want either of them to get any worse in the biting gusts.

“Slow down, Peter. Some of us aren’t genetically immune to all bad things.” He hears Ned wheeze, and immediately complies. He  _ was _ walking a little faster than normal.

“I’m not- I’ve literally got the worst track record for  _ immunity to all bad things.  _ Do I have to remind you about the whole appendicitis thing?” Peter shrugs off his scarf and chucks it at Ned as he speaks. He’s not that cold, actually, it was just a precaution. MJ’s already layered up enough, nestling into her own scarf.

“Don’t- if you list off every bad thing, we’ll be here for days.” Peter nods at MJ’s blunt statement. It’s true. Ned doesn’t try to debate the point further (wise, given as MJ is prone to winning debates), and they walk the rest of the distance in silence.

 

His fingers are numb when it’s time for him to fumble with the lock and nearly fall into the (blessedly heated) apartment; he slings his bag onto the floor and instantly drags out the stockpiling of junk food that he got ready this morning. 

“Both of you two can sit down, you’re sick.” Now, the apartment doesn’t have as many blankets as there are up at the compound, but it doesn’t mean there’s any particular shortage here, either. Peter ends up throwing a pile of maybe five of them in Ned and MJ’s general direction before grabbing his own.

“Your point?”

“You’re  _ sick. _ Like, you look like if I gave you two more days you’d be rising from the dead just to wake up.” Peter makes sure the bag of food is definitely within the reach of his friends before settling comfortably on the ceiling, partially sat on the blanket to stop it from dangling down haphazardly.

“You’re fretting, Peter, we’ll be fine.” Ned, ever the diplomat, is definitely trying to relax him, but Peter doesn’t let himself waver. He’s just gotta remember — they’d do it for him, so they can expect the same treatment.

“Don’t care. I’m being the caretaker for once, so you can keep your asses there.” He hears MJ snort, and then the first movie — he wasn’t paying attention to what it is that’s been selected — starts to play. He can still hear the occasional sniffle from below him (he ‘drops’ the tissue pack down), but there’s no speaking for about the first half of the movie.

“I can’t believe you got sick like, a week before that field trip at school. I thought  _ my _ luck was bad.” The words leave him mouth before he can stop them. It is the kind of luck normally assigned to him, but seeing it on other people… his friends, no less, kind of makes it seem really sad. He hopes this isn’t how May and Mr. Stark feel whenever he gets hurt (a lot).

“Shut up, Parker.” 

“Nah. You guys tease me all the time.”

“Where are we even going again?” Ned’s question makes him blink. Uh-

“Uh… can’t remember. Somewhere nice?” He can’t actually remember many details about the field trip, mostly because it had been a bad patrol the day before they were told about it and he’d been half-asleep. He just knows that May’s agreed to let him go on it.

 

He hopes that Ned and MJ won’t feel so crappy when they actually go, though.

 

He spends the majority of the night watching the movies too, but continues subtly dropping junk food and bottled water down on the two via webs. They don’t mention it. Neither does he.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hgn. sorry that this one is shoddy


	31. Showdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was stupid to think that he'd be able to keep this. 
> 
> He never should have thought the monster in his head would go away, let alone that it wouldn't find him eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof. the promised chapter. the one that hurt me the most to write.
> 
> 31.
> 
> enjoy

This isn’t how he imagined his day was gonna go. He literally just wanted to go on a gentle jog with Pepper, maybe see if the kid wanted to come to the compound after his trip to MOMA. 

 

Tony dodges a giant blast from the way too tall, giant purple grape  _ fucker _ who’s been stuck in his head for the past 6 years. Thanos. The little bitch who caused New York. The one who screwed over his mental state single handedly. 

 

The fucker who’s got four of the six infinity stones, according to Strange. The strongest being in the universe. 

 

He’s scared. He’s terrified. He can hardly think straight. His head’s a mess, just  _ staring _ at the unapologetic face of a mad man. A murderer. The creature who is gonna kill half the universe if they don’t make a stand now. 

 

He sees Peter get chucked roughly, and roll to a halt before bouncing back up. 

 

And that’s another thing entirely. Tony’s throat is dry, and he can feel every single heartbeat in his throat. The kid skipped his trip when the donut ship appeared over New York. He’s in so, so much danger. More than Toomes. More than the torture-doctor, or anything he’s seen in the time he’s known the kid. 

 

Every protective dad instinct in his chest is  _ screaming _ . His kid is in the same mortal peril he’s in. The same peril the entire universe is in. 

 

Put simply, Tony can’t breathe. He’s so  _ scared _ . 

 

Thanos is the monster that’s been haunting him for years. The creature who’s been lurking behind his every thought, driving every self-destructive behaviour in his wild attempts to try and stave off the inevitable. Thanos has arrived. He’s waging his war against the universe so he can erase half of it, apparently. 

 

And he’s here with the ragtag space team, a wizard, his kid and himself. 

 

The grape is beating them all, easily. Not for lack of effort, obviously — they’re working together as best they can, here. Strange delivers his attacks while supporting others. Peter works as a distraction and a heavy-hitter, knocking Thanos back with hits worthy of something Hulk-sized. 

 

His kid’s quite the hero when he’s not tripping flat on his face. 

 

And then Thanos turns around as the kid launches himself out of one of Strange’s portals. 

 

Grabs the kid by the throat. 

 

Slams him into the ground, hard enough to crack it. 

 

The only thing that stops Tony from trying to end the grape right there, right then, is the fact that Peter is still squirming in his grip and Thanos could end his kid so easily right now. 

 

The prune picks up his kid — by the throat, Tony’s gonna either chuck up or slam the raisin’s head into the fucking floor — and chucks him to the side like he’s nothing. 

 

Tony can’t have that. 

 

But he can’t abandon his crazy teammates to fight this guy alone. 

 

Despite how goddamn desperate he is to swoop in and protect his kid, he’s trained Peter. He knows the kid can handle himself, and is more than capable of holding his own (as much as one can when fighting a fucking  _ grape) _ , so he stays where he is and continues dishing out attacks. 

 

The dance continues, and it’s hard to think when the odds are this high. It’s hard to think when the universe is hanging in the balance. 

 

It drags on. 

 

And then- 

 

Hope. 

 

Through what feels like an eternity of effort, they’re offered an opening. 

 

Strange has Thanos’ arm, the one with the gauntlet, trapped. Drax kicks his legs out, sending the Titan to his knees. Quill immobilises the other arm. Peter swings in, webs Thanos’ chest, and is pulling as hard as he can against the Titan’s thrashing. He’s struggling. They all are. But ultimately, they’ve got the grape immobilised long enough for Strange to drop the bug girl — Mantis? — on Thanos’ head, effectively rendering him useless. It’s hard on her, though. Tony can see it in the creases on her face, the war on her expression. They have to hurry. 

 

Even when he calls Peter over — the kid’s winded and obviously running outta steam — to pull of the gauntlet, the damn thing is basically glued on. 

 

And then it all goes to shit. 

 

He doesn’t understand what Mantis means about Thanos ‘mourning’ (how could such a monster even have a heart?) or why Quill suddenly freezes up, but he knows the reaction. It’s him in Siberia, watching that footage. It’s the exact same thing. 

 

Thanos took something from Quill. Tony yells out something to the man, anything, ‘cause Peter’s nearly got the gauntlet off and they’re so  _ close _ and-

 

Quill punches Thanos. Mantis lets go. Thanos comes back to quickly, and knocks out the girl and rips the gauntlet back into his grasp —  _ they failed _ — , sending his kid to the floor. Thanos throws Mantis, and he only just catches Peter’s quiet ‘ _ oh, god _ ’ before he’s leaping after her. 

 

He can only watch as the Iron Spider suit’s legs form a protective cage around Peter and Mantis. Good. At least they’re safe and at a distance — this battle, the real one? It’s six years in the making, and it’s between him and that raisin-fucker. 

 

But now everything’s gone to hell, and the universe is in the balance again. 

 

Desperation sours Tony’s chest as Thanos quickly takes out each and every person on the field with brute efficiency. 

 

Maybe they can’t win this one. 

  
  


He launches himself towards Thanos, nanotech blade in hand, and starts attacking with desperation, determination, pain and shock sitting heavily in his chest. It’s hard to keep up with the Titan’s movements. 

 

He gets swatted down again; the blade shatters and he scrabbles to get his feet under him again. 

 

Thanos is using the gauntlet. 

 

On a moon. 

 

His chest goes cold at the sight of two gems — space, power? — lighting up within the gauntlet, and then the  _ entire fucking moon is heading towards him.  _

 

He does what he can to evade the fragments, but ends up being swiftly pinned. 

 

He can’t breathe. Well, he can, but he’s literally trapped between a moon and a hard place and he’s got so much  _ panic _ sat in his chest and oh, god, this fight is it, this fight is it, this is what he’s been preparing for since New York, this is what he wanted Ultron to fend off, this is why the Avengers broke up. 

 

Between his emotions and the moon on his back, Tony can’t breathe. 

 

_ Holy shit.  _

 

This is what Peter had to go through under the building. The darkness, the pressure, the knowledge that you should be dead but you aren’t… it’s a fucking horror show. 

 

Maybe he should take a page from his kid’s book. 

 

He’s not stuck. That’s not who he is. 

 

And he remembers. Maybe for the first time in years, he remembers what’s at his very core. He’s Tony fucking Stark. He’s built himself up from ruins, from shards, and each fucker who tries to knock him down never succeeds in their job. 

 

He won’t give up. He’s got a family to save and return to. 

 

It’s difficult, but he manages it. Tony lets the suit discharge quite easily the most powerful repulsor blast he’s managed so far nearly vapourise the rubble pinning him. 

 

By the time he’s freed, Thanos has Strange pinned in a choking grip, and he’s holding the weird necklace.  _ Is he too late…? _

 

Thanos crushes it. Nothing happens. Crumpled metal falls to the floor. Strange is chucked (hard) to the side. He doesn’t get back up, but Tony has a gut feeling that he won’t stay down. 

“FRIDAY, stop him from closing his fist.”

 

And the ‘package’ is delivered, effectively preventing Thanos from doing anything too drastic. Tony makes sure to make his landing emphasise just how fucked off he is. 

“You throw another moon at me… and I’m gonna lose it.” He’s breathing hard, having only just avoided an anxiety attack just then. How the kid did it...

“Stark.”

“You know me?”

“I do. You’re not the only one  _ cursed _ with knowledge.”

Tony grits his teeth. “My only curse is  _ you _ .” 

 

The neural interface between himself and the suit works stunningly. Mini-missiles, lots of them, instantly make their journey towards Thanos, and while Tony  _ knows _ they won’t do much to kill him, they’ll hopefully slow him down, buy him some time to regroup. 

 

He needs to make sure everyone’s alive. He needs to make sure Peter is alive and safe. 

 

Loathe as he is to call favourites, Peter is  _ definitely _ , 100% without a doubt his number one priority right now. When there’s a genocidial maniac on the loose, his priorities become a little more family oriented, apparently. 

 

Tony throws himself towards Thanos when the missiles do nothing, making sure the thrusters are pushing him forward as hard as possible. Then he does the same when punching the Titan backwards into a nearby mound of rubble. Thanos doesn’t slow down. 

 

His helmet is torn off. He blinks, shocked, before willing another to take its place. He’s punched into the floor. He can’t stop, though. He hears a shattering that means the only thing stopping Thanos from snapping is gone, and pushes himself upright as quickly as possible-

 

The purple beam of energy rushes towards him so fast, he thinks of the only thing that could have saved him in the past. 

 

A shield. 

 

He doesn’t think about the man behind it, he just leans forward using all his strength to stop himself from being killed. 

 

FRIDAY is measuring the energy readings of the incoming energy — it’s decreasing. Which means-

 

The purple lets up. Tony throws himself forward; eagerly delivers the hardest roundhouse kick he can. The suit keeps the gauntlet pinned to the ground. 

 

He can feel stares on him. The readings from the Iron Spider show steady vital outputs ( _ Peter is fine. He’s never been so relieved),  _ so he keeps his mind on the task at hand. 

 

Thanos visibly recoils at his next hit, hand coming up to where Tony hit. He’s not smug. He’s not smug- 

 

He’s fucking proud. The fucker’s bleeding. He’s not immortal. 

 

_ If you can make god bleed, people will cease to believe in him.  _

 

Huh. 

“All that for a drop of blood.”

 

Fuck. 

 

He’s thrown — seriously, what’s this guy’s deal with throwing people? — backwards before he can stop it, and it’s followed up with hits coming in succession too rapid to defend against. How can such a huge thing move so fast…?

 

The real icing on the cake is when he’s punched, in the chest, by the power stone and chucked a few meters away. 

 

Tony groans. At least he’s taking this. He’s got the armour. He doesn’t even want to think about what would happen if someone else tried taking these hits. 

 

Tony dials up the repulsor strength as Thanos walks towards him, even having to divert nanotech from his legs to his arms to do it in the first place. He won’t be able to keep this up much longer; he’s running out of nanobots. 

 

Thanos swings a hulking fist at him. Tony only just blocks. Thanos does it again, and Tony blocks with one arm. 

 

Thanos has left himself open. 

 

He diverts more nanotech from the rest of his body to his arm, forming the same blade from earlier. C’mon, c’mon. Thanos doesn’t look like he’s expecting it. 

 

He thrusts the blade forward. 

 

Thanos catches it. 

 

His chest goes cold as it’s snapped from the rest of his armour, and it looks so frail in that massive, purple hand that he’s almost ashamed to think it’d work in the first place. 

 

He doesn’t have the kid’s spidey-sense. But he’s not an idiot. 

 

Tony doesn’t have time to so much as  _ try _ to dodge before the weapon is thrusted through his core. 

 

Clean through, from what it feels like. 

 

Tony grasps at the Titan’s bicep for support, anything to stop himself from falling over. 

 

He’s been impaled by his own blade. 

 

He can hear Peter yelling in the distance. He can feel his chest lurching up and down in his panic. Thanos is so close to him. He’s repulsed. 

 

He can’t help but let out the pained noises. It’s  _ agony.  _ The worst pain he’s ever been in. Worse than having heart surgery without anaesthesia. 

 

He can feel the nano-tech blade  _ inside him _ . Tony coughs some blood out onto his lips, down his shirt. Thanos’ hand — and the gauntlet, so tantalisingly close, and so far away from being removed — is the only thing keeping his head upright. 

“You have my respect, Stark.”

 

Tony wants to scream. 

 

_ I don’t want your respect. I want you to die and go away.  _

“When I’m done, half of humanity will still be alive. I hope they remember you.”

 

Oh, god. 

 

He thinks it can’t get any worse. Sure, he’s probably gonna die here, guessing from the way Thanos’ fist is raised and all four stones are alight — he’s gonna be ripped to shreds, blasted clean out of existence. Oh god, if Peter sees  _ that _ … (suddenly, he realises he doesn’t want to die here) — but Strange said he won’t give the stone up for him and that’s good. Even if he dies, the universe will live. 

 

Or so he fucking thought. 

“Spare his life, and I will give you the stone.”

 

No. No no no no no. Not even Strange could make such a stupid decision — he’s a  _ dead man.  _

“No tricks.” Tony watches, horrified, as Strange shakes his head. 

“Don’t.” Is all he can manage. It’s not enough. 

 

Strange reveals the stone, bright green and almost pulsing. Like it’s alive. In a strange way, it’s beautiful. Should he feel connected to it, or is it just the fact that he’s bleeding into every internal cavity he’s got? Tony’s chest is cold but his core is aflame. No. It floats over to the Mad Titan slowly, like it’s taunting Tony. 

 

He’s failed. Tony gasps and sucks in each breath like it’s a challenge. 

 

_ No! Why?! You said you’d let me die for that stone. What the fuck are you doing?! _

 

Tony can only watch on in horror as Thanos drops the stone into his gauntlet. 

“One to go.”

 

There’s a noise, gunfire —  _ Quill _ — and then Thanos steps back into a portal and is gone from Titan. To Earth. To collect the last stone. 

“Where is he?!” Tony can’t answer. He’s completely numb when he uses his nanotech to plug the gaping wound in his side. He should be feeling pain, but he’s not. He’s not because the universe just got fucked over for him. 

“Did we just lose…?” 

 

Yes. He wants to blame it on Quill, but he can’t. He would never. Not after Siberia, not even before that. Quill just lost his love… if Thanos killed Pepper… he’d do the same. 

 

But that’s not what he’s numb about. He looks at Strange. 

 

_ Why. _

_ “Why would you do that.” _

“We’re in the endgame now.”

 

_ Not until you decided we were. Why didn’t you let me die? _

 

Peter jogs over to him. Tony can see just by the way he carries himself that he’s hurt too, but the kid’s put on a brave face for him. His chest throbs. 

 

That might just be the stab wound in his side, though. 

“Mr. Stark! Oh, my god, hold on-” Tony grasps the hand Peter offers him, grunting in pain as he pulls himself upright. His chest is in  _ agony _ . 

 

Peter looks so, so scared. He’s staring at the wound, eyes wide and glassy. Tony tried to convey with his eyes that  _ it’s fine, it’s not as bad as it looks _ . 

 

He has to get the kid home. They need to get to Earth. They’ve lost the battle on the Titan front. They have to get to Earth before Thanos can-

“Something’s happening.” Tony jolts. The girl — Mantis —. Her voice is terrified. Confused. The other Guardians turn to face her. She’s an empath, right? Something’s-

 

He can feel the pure  _ horror _ running through his veins as he watches Mantis crumble into ashes, and disappear. It’s so quick he hardly has the chance to get a breath lodged in his throat as it happens. 

 

Where there was once a living being, now stands a pile of ashes, quickly being swept away by the wind. 

 

No. No. Nonono. They’re too late. Thanos- he’s done it. The dust-

 

Half the universe is dying. 

 

He could be dying. Rhodey, Happy, Pepper, Peter, Helen, May, Ned, MJ, his work-family at the compound. They could all be dying. None of them could be dying. 

 

Half of them are going to die. 

 

Tony’s breath picks up, and his terror probably shows on his face. 

 

Mantis is gone. 

 

Quill’s face is horrified. He can’t speak. He just looks at his side, where she used to be (he’s lost his loved one and a close friend, he’s gonna lose everything).

“What just- Mr. Stark- I’m scared. What’s happening?” Peter’s grip on his arm —

 

_ Like when the kid got that really bad concussion from the car crash and only responded to contact. Peter trying to keep hold of Tony because he was scared of being pinned by the car.  _

 

— is like that of a scared child, clinging to their parent. Tony can’t respond immediately. When he does, the words feel thick and unnatural. 

“I don’t know, kid.” The throbbing pain in his abdomen has been buried by now. Everything’s gonna end here. This was the endgame. 

 

* * *

_ We’ll lose. _

 

_ Then we’ll do that together, too.  _

  
  


Bullshit. 

 

* * *

“Quill?” He looks sharply over to Drax. The alien’s eyes are wide. Almost scared. Confused, definitely. 

 

Dust. 

 

Tony’s heart is flying by now. 

 

The dust creeps across Drax, spreading quickly until-

 

He’s gone as well. The air feels too heavy to breathe, like it’s laced with concrete dust. He feels sick. Tony looks over to Peter — he looks like he wants to pass out, or cry. Tony can’t blame him. Quill’s shaking now, only just. 

“Steady, Quill.” The words are plastic in his mouth. The guy stumbles again; stares Tony dead in the face. His eyes are losing their light rapidly. Tony’s chest turns cold within seconds, because he can see the other man giving up. 

“Oh, man…”

 

He’s gone too. 

 

(The worst part is that the light completely left Quill’s eyes before the dust overtook them.)

 

Peter’s clutching at his hand, and he releases it suddenly to move to a side. 

 

Tony turns himself around. 

 

_ Strange _ . Oh god, not him too. Not everyone. Please. 

 

Peter left his grip to try to help the man.  _ The kid thinks he can save them.  _ But Tony can see it in Peter’s eyes, in the way the browns are quickly hidden under growing pools of tears- 

 

He knows it can’t be stopped. 

“Tony.” He looks over to the sorcerer. Maybe he was right. Maybe this fight should have been had on Earth. Maybe these losses are his fault. Strange shakes his head slightly, like he knows exactly what Tony’s thinking. 

“There was no other way.”

 

A few seconds pass. Peter’s looking more and more terrified by the second, hands twitching to help something that cannot be helped. 

 

Tony’s eyes burn. One, two, three, four. That’s four out of eight people who were on Titan, dying or dead. 

 

_ Perfectly balanced… _

 

Strange gives him one more look, one that might have some kind of extra meaning — he can’t see past right now, he can’t see past the fact that the universe is dying and unraveling and falling apart and he can’t stop it — but he can’t tell. 

 

His stab wound throbs with each second it takes for Strange to disappear. His last second alive is spent staring into Tony’s eyes. 

 

His breaths are uneven. Dead. Dead. They’re all dead. Pepper might be dead. The love of his life. Rhodey, Happy. His brothers. They could be dead. Little more than piles of ashes. Helen. May. The kid’s friends. His friends. They could be dead. 

 

He’s got Peter. He’s got Peter in front of him, still breathing. Still healthy. Still breathing. 

 

The kid’s scraped through worse than this. Tony’s been at the kid’s side for over a year now. They’ve been through so much together. 

 

He’s become a dad in all but biological relations. Peter is, by all means, his son. Peter’s his kid, and he’s got a heart of gold and he’s too good to be taken. And Starks- they’re cursed to survive. 

 

“Mr. Stark?” Peter’s voice is subdued. Quiet. Almost questioning, in a way. Tony could almost be fooled into thinking everything was normal.

 

Nothing is normal. Thanos got the stones. His plan to wipe out-

 

To wipe out-

 

_ No.  _

 

Howard didn’t survive. 

 

Maybe the curse is Tony’s. 

 

He meets his kid’s eyes. Fear. Pain. Panic. Tony can’t tell if it’s his or Peter’s anymore.  

 

_ Mr. Stark? _

 

The aftermath of a stabbing. The recovery from PTSD. The setback from the torture, and another road to recovery. 

 

_ Mr. Stark? _

 

The name that’s been there throughout. Through pain, joy, tiredness, fear.  _ Mr. Stark? _ Peter asking him for guidance. Reassurance. Peter slowly going from  _ intern-protege _ to  _ son-figure _ . Everything that’s happened between Homecoming and right now. The name that wraps up their entire bond. 

 

_ Mr. Stark? _

 

Everything he’s still got planned out for the kid to see and do. Training so he can defend himself. Helping the kid out at school more. Being there for more milestones than Howard attended for him. 

 

A future that’s dimming. 

 

_ Mr. Stark? _

 

So why does it…

 

It feels so  _ final.  _

 

“I don’t feel so good.” Peter's breathing is laboured. He looks at his hands, at his arms, and then looks up at Tony. Tony looks down slowly too. 

 

It’s the biggest mistake he’s ever made. 

 

Peter’s fingertips have faded to a darker colour. They’re cracking. Tony looks back up to Peter, heart in his throat, dread flooding his every cell-

 

There’s so much in the kid’s eyes that he can’t breathe anymore. Tony’s heart does something in his chest; a sensation that’s a cross between stabbing and burning. 

 

He wonders if this is what dying is like. 

 

He hopes this is what dying is like. 

 

Tears find their way to his eyes before he knows what’s happening. 

 

_ No. God, please. No. Don’t take him. Leave him. Kill me. Please. Just take me. Don’t take- _

“I don’t know what’s happening- I don’t know what’s-” Peter’s moving towards him. 

 

His eyes are so, so scared. He’s faced down psychopaths and villains before. He’s seen more than any kid should ever have to, but only  _ now _ are his eyes the blank-scale scared that they are. 

 

He’s a kid. He’s terrified. Tony opens his arms to catch Peter, just in time for the kid to fall into the grip. 

 

Peter’s hands are at his back, constantly adjusting, so familiar but wrong

 

* * *

_ Peter hugging him lazily after that time he got stabbed and went to Stark Tower instead of home, constantly trying to get comfortable.  _

 

* * *

__

_ Peter jolting awake harshly after his nightmare at the compound, tackling Tony into a hug to make sense of what was and wasn’t real.  _

 

* * *

__

_ Tony hugging Peter after he crashed mid-swing because of his PTSD crisis. Trying to find some way to help pick up the pieces of his kid.  _

 

* * *

 

_ Peter clinging desperately to Tony in the midst of his fever, right before he found the security footage from the warehouse collapse. Peter trying to find some comfort in Tony because he was a sick kid in need of warmth.  _

 

* * *

 

_ Peter being bedridden after his torture, constantly dependent on affection and contact to stop him from slipping back into a catatonic state. _

 

* * *

 

unlike every time they’ve hugged in the past. Tony’s throat closes as he returns the embrace, despite how much his wound hurts to move. It’s autopilot. They’ve done this so many times, hugging. The best way they have to comfort each other. Why should now be any different? Tony cradles the kid’s head to he’s resting at the crook of his neck. 

 

He can feel tears running down onto his clothes. It doesn’t matter. He’s crying now as well. The pain in his abdomen got nothing on the devastating, shattering ache in his heart. 

“I don’t wanna go. I don’t wanna go. Mr. Stark,  _ please _ , I don’t wanna go, I don’t wanna go-” Peter’s voice is broken. So,  _ so _ scared. 

 

He wishes he never realised Peter’s actions for what they are — Peter looks up to him. Tony knows this; it’s been in the way Peter has interacted with him since the very beginning in Germany. He knows Peter has looked up to him since he first declared he was Iron Man. 

 

Peter’s come to him for two reasons. One — ever since the Expo, Tony’s been saving Peter’s life. Peter expects the same now.

 

_ (He wants to die for knowing he can’t save Peter this time.) _

 

And two: Tony’s been there for Peter so much since Homecoming. He’s not complaining — it’s his honour to be the kid’s dad-figure. 

 

He’s saved Peter so many times now. Peter’s saved him, too. 

 

Tony can’t save Peter. 

 

He’s watching his kid  _ die _ . Everything he’s ever done to save Peter… 

 

And he can’t stop this. 

 

No parent should ever have to watch their child die. 

 

He isn’t ready to lose his Peter. His kid. His son. 

 

The tears flow faster when Peter’s hands stop pressuring his back.  _ They’re gone.  _ Tony has to lean the kid backward so he rests on the ground. 

 

His heart shatters. Peter’s face is so, so  _ scared _ . More openly terrified than anything Tony’s seen before. Toomes. The doctor. Nearly dying so, so many times. Everything they’ve gone through-

 

Pales compared to this. 

 

He’s pale

* * *

_ The same pale he was before Tony found out about May’s abusive boyfriend. _

* * *

and the bags under his eyes are more pronounced than ever

* * *

_ The same as when Peter’s PTSD struck hard when that building nearly collapsed, tearing the kid from sleep before he could rest. _

* * *

and his eyes are so scared Tony finds he can’t breathe anymore.

 

_ I don’t wanna go.  _ A child’s concept of dying — going somewhere far away, where they can’t see anyone anymore. 

 

Peter’s just a kid. He doesn’t want to die. 

 

Tony would trade his life for Peter’s in an instant. He’d get to live. That would be enough for Tony to be happy. 

 

Peter tries to reach for him. He can’t anymore. Tony runs his hands through the kid’s hair.

 

_ Parents are meant to take all their kid’s suffering away.  _

 

_ So why can’t he? _

 

“I’m sorry.” Tony watches, his heart slowly dying and shattering and falling apart in his chest as Peter’s tears overflow again, and the dust makes its way to his neck. 

 

He can’t not watch. Peter’s- his kid’s-

 

_ His son is dying in front of him.  _

“Dad-”

 

He’s gone.  

 

Tony falls forward, arms empty. 

  
  


_...kid…? _

  
  
  
  
  


* * *

 

  
  
  
  


It’s silent now. No more struggling. No more pain, or suffering. 

 

He looks down. 

 

There’s blood on his hands. His. 

 

There’s dust intermingled with it.

 

He can’t breathe anymore. 

 

_ I don’t wanna go.  _

 

_ I’m sorry.  _

 

_ Dad- _

 

He brings his hand up to his face, and cradles it with the clean one. He wraps his good hand around the one with-

 

With-

 

With  _ Peter _ on it. 

 

His dead kid.  _ Dead.  _

 

His kid’s gone. Forever. He’s never gonna hear him ramble again. He’s never gonna see the kid bound around again. He’s never gonna hear the kid’s voice, or see his smile, or run a hand through his curls ever again.  _ Because his kid’s dead.  _ No more work projects. No more “Mr. Stark!”, no more hugs, no more photographs, no more reports on patrols-

 

He’s never gonna be able to tell his kid he loves him. 

 

They didn’t have enough time. 

 

And now he’s gone. 

 

_ Peter’s gone.  _

 

May’s lost the only surviving member of her family. Her kid. Ned’s lost his best friend of fifteen years. 

 

_ He’s lost his son.  _

 

Tony brings his hand close; keeps it against his chest. 

 

His tears meet the blood-dust mix as he brings it close to his mouth. 

 

He gently presses a kiss to the hand (like the ones he rests on top of Peter’s head of curls whenever he’s being particularly clingy-). 

  
  


_ He didn’t get to say a proper goodbye.  _

 

Quiet tears turn to mute sobs as he cries into his hand. The hopelessness in his chest is only diminished by the pain. 

 

_ It should have been me _ . 

 

_ Why couldn’t it have been me? _

 

“He did it.”

 

Tony doesn’t respond. 

  
_ It should have been me _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :')
> 
>  
> 
> i'm gonna miss doing whumptober. but i'll definitely do it again next year! it's too fun not to. tell me how i did?

**Author's Note:**

> leave me a comment, tell me how I did, yell at my for maybe killing someone off


End file.
